The Elder Scrolls V: Dawnguard
by WhiteZephyr
Summary: Four months after the events of the Dragon Crisis, Skyrim's internal conflict is reaching a breaking point, and Taryn Greystone is caught in the centre of it. With the Empire and the rebel Stormcloaks busy tearing the province apart, ancient Vampires descend on the bloodletting to fulfil an ancient prophecy whispered by an Elder Scroll, and only the Dawnguard stands in their way...
1. Prologue

The Elder Scrolls V:

Skyrim

Dawnguard

Prologue

 _ **4 First Seed, 4E 188**_

 _On a steep hill overlooking the sea, high above the port town below, sat a sombre and weeping child, back red from the slaps of a ruler and welting from the strikes. The hill was a place for solace for her, where she could run to escape her worries and her life below in the rickety orphanage ruled by the tyrannical Madame—the very same who had caused such red burns on her back. Clutching her dress in her small hands, the girl wailed and hoped that she wouldn't be found or disturbed by the guard or a passerby from below. Her solace was watching the sea and hoping it wasn't as cruel as the towering woman she'd eventually have to go back to._

 _By the time her sobs had dimmed into sniffles, the sun had dipped under the horizon. The grass became darker and all became shadows to her. Only the lamps being lit below in the town were brave enough to cut through the darkness, but she didn't much mind it. Being alone didn't frighten her, nor did the eerie shadows that encompassed the Nirn. Indeed, the only thing that appeared to frighten her was the people who briskly walked the streets by day and prowled with daggers by night. People were two-faced and deceiving, and she wasn't at all sure she could ever trust their like, especially with such an example as the Madame._

 _Cloaked in the darkness yet perched like a bird on the rickety old fence on the hill was a strange-looking man, who was bare-chested and wielded a spear. His face was masked by the skull of a stag, upon which a set of antlers proudly extended. Around his waist were the furs of bears and wolves and deer, and his hair, if one studied it closely, appeared to be fur, though long and didn't halt at the base of his neck; it followed his spine until his mid-back, where it faded into tiny pinpricks of hair. This man watched the weeping child with a curious tilt to his odd head, his glowing amber eyes focused solely on her, then he extended his arm and dug his spear into the earth, aiding him in his sudden leap from the fence towards the girl._

 _Of course he made a sound, and it startled the little girl enough for her to gasp and spin to look at the strange man. Her eyes, red-rimmed and puffy from her sorrows, were fixated in fear at the man who was wearing the darkness like a comfortable coat. She couldn't move. Her breathing became rapid again as her fear overcame her, and she began crying once more. The man came closer, and finally the girl summoned enough courage to tear her eyes away from the ethereal amber branding her soul. Her small fists lifted to her eyes and she made sure they were placed firmly overtop so she wouldn't have to look at the monster._

 _The man crouched in front of her as the child continued to weep, and he reached out a finger tipped with a black claw towards her. Carefully, he pried away one small fist from her eye and wiped his thumb over a fresh tear. The girl was confused but still frightened. He didn't smell like the sea, like all from around the coast did, so he was a stranger, and a fearsome one at that. He smelled like the forests from the north, or so the girl thought it would smell. His breathing was even and deep, betraying no emotion or thought he held. But he did take away her second fist and wipe her other eye much as he had done before._

 _He allowed the girl time to become used to his presence, then he sat cross-legged in front of her and examined her more closely. She was hiccupping and still crying, but wasn't trying to hide from him. In his thumb and forefinger he could easily hold the girl's fists captive, though he did so softly, hoping not to terrify the poor thing any further. He released his grip on her right hand with his left, then slowly reached around to her back. She flinched when he touched the welts and hiccupped even worse, so he released her other hand as well to tenderly stroke the dark brown hair on her head, hoping to ease her pain and worries._

 _He delicately touched her back again, his fingers feeling for every wound, and when he believed he'd found them all he summoned magicka to his fingers and meticulously applied a healing touch to her. Exhausted from her ordeal, the girl's eyelids drooped until she fell forward onto the man's lap. He continued to stroke her hair and heal her, overlooking the girl's trusting nature that allowed her to fall into such a blissful sleep with a stranger. Once he'd finished on her back, he picked the girl up in his arms and had his spear dissipate into thin air, much like he did to himself as he transported them both into the orphanage she currently belonged to. Paint was peeling from the walls and the man nearly stubbed his exposed feet on rusty nails, but he managed to manoeuvre around them while giving the room a distasteful scowl. He glanced around to see if anyone was looking and, ratifying that he would remain unseen, he gingerly lowered the girl into her bed, covering her and her little red dress with the blue sheet of her bed. He lowered his finger to her forehead, but hesitated. In her sleep she called out for her parents, the loneliness biting at her like the chill of a winter's morning._

 _The man smoothly placed his finger on her forehead and wiped away her memories of him, then influenced her mind to give her pleasant dreams for the night. Her expression soon turned from one of a lost little girl to something much better. He watched her for a moment, ran his right hand over his skull, then disappeared into the darkness, back to his realm._

 _He would continue to wait and be patient to accept her into his Hunting Grounds._

_/-\\_

 _ **4 First Seed, 4E 202**_

A forceful snap sounded throughout the broad room, jostling the inky-scaled Argonian awake by pitch alone. It could make anyone cringe, but by then Milos had heard it so many times he was becoming appallingly accustomed to it. He rubbed his taloned fingers over his yellow eyes, blinked to stimulate them further with alertness, and idly reached for his goblet of room-temperature mead, which he frowned at.

The room, which was actually the entirety of a small shack just outside of the city of Winterhold, was cramped with himself and the Arch-Mage Javin Kelco, a Redguard who was currently pouring over the analysis of the night's events, his inkwell a bit shallow for his liking. He absently wiped some of his stray beard hairs out of his way as he scanned the documents with masterful brown eyes, and his fingers of equally dark skin made adjustments or notes where he deemed necessary. Milos was seated across from the mage at the table which they'd carried in a few months ago, the seats with it. His goblet was encircled by writing and reading materials that he tried not to eye for fear of the mage's excitement for chatter.

Another snap, that one a bit more violent, and it was accompanied by a pathetic snarl at the other end of the room behind the blue-green barrier that Javin had erected after yesterday's dusk. The early morning had Milos feeling groggy, but he chose to rest at another time. Promises were promises, after all.

The most recent fracture had Javin actually look up from his notes and glance over his shoulder, beyond that barrier of his. Milos chose not to follow his gaze and instead played with his goblet while he began to wait through the next hour of popping sounds that would come from that direction. He could guess it was around five or six in the morning.

Javin huffed and shook his head. "That time of day again," yawned the mage while he rubbed his eyes. "You brought the clothes, Milos?"

The heavy-set Argonian nodded and gestured to the corner behind the Arch-Mage to a beige backpack bulging with supplies. "Over there," he affirmed. Milos grunted to clear his throat of an annoying tickle. "Thanks for doing this, by the way. I know you're risking a lot for us."

The Arch-Mage grinned, which deepened his creasing wrinkles. His brown eyes twinkled with mischievousness and highlighted the rebelliousness of his youth. "Well, we were all part of a rather endearing quest, and I admit I've grown fond of you two. What kind of person would turn you away after offering something like this?"

"You're still taking research notes, though," the Argonian pointed out.

Javin waved him away. "Bah. I said I would, did I not? And I aim to aid, not to treat her like some sideshow monster. We both know she isn't."

Milos pursed his lips and resisted again not to look at the barrier when he heard another audible snap, but rather than a snarl, there was a whine. He could hear the lumbering mass, the short growl that ended every breath taken... He just chose to ignore it, since it was better that way for him. It didn't poke at old wounds from the past.

Leaning forward, the mage continued, "Besides, the poor girl's been through a lot. I think she needs a place where she knows she's safe, and that Dragon Priest isn't helping any. Has he shut up about that blasted Labrynthian yet?"

The Argonian snorted and rolled his incredulous eyes. "He won't until she takes him to find a way back to his own time, and he's been complaining more than usual because we keep getting sidetracked. Bandits chase off the hunters, we take them out. Giant destroys a home, we're there for the bounty. But every time we get close to that accursed place something _always_ stops us from entering."

"Now that's one thing I don't miss," Javin admitted with a wry grin. "That priest ought to learn patience. Although I admit my surprise he hasn't tried to burn a city to the ground."

Milos shrugged nonchalantly, his armour jostling at the movement. He realized he'd need to tighten it again. "Well, he's stopped being so much of a haughty prick since Alduin was defeated, I'll give him that much. Now he's just an annoying fossil. I don't know why he gets to talk her ear off..."

The mage smiled and pulled his cloak a little more tightly around himself. With no fireplace in the cabin, blankets, furs and cloaks were the best they could do for warmth. Javin's action brought Milos to an idea, so he stood and closed the gap between he and his pack in three swift strides. He unbound the buckles, the metal cold to the touch on his sensitive scales, then removed a set of warm clothes and two fur-lined blankets from within, disregarding the mound of leather armour that was unceremoniously crumpled in a disorganized ball nearby. In the very nook of the corner was a plain-looking katana, recently sharpened, and with bronze snakes modelled for the guard. Blue and gold wrappings were wound throughout the hilt, marking it as a weapon of the ancient Blades, if the snakes or the shape of the blade hadn't already made it blatantly obvious.

Another several loud and violent cracks made themselves known as Milos walked back to Javin, his bundle in hand. The small noises he could manage; the loud ones had him cringe, however slightly. The Argonian lowered himself into his seat and began sifting through his acquired choices, all soft and light to his touch. Not as heavy as he thought they'd been when they were purchased...

"He's at the inn again?" chatted the mage.

It took Milos a few seconds to realize whom Javin was speaking of, but when he knew, he nodded. "Yes. Eduard's at the inn." He continued perusing the items. "She's pretty set on keeping those who know to a minimum. And since she thinks he'll be gone soon, we're keeping it from him, too."

Javin nodded solemnly. "Ah, yes. Understandable, of course. It's not every day one awakens to find out they're a Werewolf, now is it?"

"Or Dragonborn, for that matter." Milos placed the bundle on his lap and folded his dark hands onto it. "I'm pretty certain she has a target on her back. She's always gotten the short end of the stick, at least when it comes to luck. That's partially the reason why she was usually the one hit back at the orphanage."

Javin placed his elbow on the table and leaned his head onto his arm, his head turned in the direction of the barrier, where a large, dark-coloured mass paced incessantly beyond. Milos averted his eyes so he wouldn't see it.

"That's odd," mumbled the mage, his eyes locked on the lumbering and occasionally whining or snarling thing. "I haven't seen any scars on her for that..."

"They're there," the Argonian assured him. "They've just faded a decent amount over the years. And she hasn't been there in about two years to receive new ones."

The Arch-Mage shrugged, stretched his arms above his head and yawned loudly, the night finally taking its toll on him more forcefully. "Ah, just wait about twenty minutes and we'll have a fully-functioning Dragonborn who doesn't want to eat us. Though I can imagine she'll want some rest. Being awake all night and day would certainly not be good for her health."

Milos casually nodded in agreement. The snapping sounds were more frequent and certainly more audible than before, which had the Argonian uncomfortably playing with his goblet again just to draw his attention elsewhere. The duration of the wait seemed longer than it should have, and Milos began to cringe with each snap as the monstrous whimpers and whines slowly became recognizable human wails, groans and the occasional scream. Around that time, Milos unfolded the two blankets he'd retrieved and approached the barrier.

With a few careful, practiced motions, Javin dispelled the blue-green wall into nothingness. His robes, also fitted with fur, were drawn even more tightly around himself than his cloak to combat the cold. The morning chill was brutal and could seep into one's bones with relative ease, unhindered by clothes or cautionary preparations made earlier by the wearer, which was why Milos made certain to carefully tuck the Dragonborn into the blankets as securely as he could. He glanced down at her left hand and saw the prominent white scar running vertically through her palm, narrowly avoiding the bones between her forefinger and middle finger. He assumed the wound on her right side, just above her waist, looked about the same. A wave of regret washed over Milos as he remembered the night he'd inflicted those wounds on her, thinking she was not the monster she had to become every time Masser was full and glowing in the sky like a beacon of dread.

He realized he enjoyed the sun far more than he ever had the moons.

The Dragonborn's forehead was coated with sweat, her face flushed and pale while a fever raged across her skin, which was agitated by the presence of the blankets, but any refusal of them would leave her indecent, and she had enough presence in her mind to remember that being naked in front of her friends was not a particularly ingenious idea. A shiver of soreness, promptly followed by a nasty spasm in her bones, had her clenching her aching fists as the last few waves of discomfort melted away, allowing her ragged gasps to finally slow. Milos was there to stroke her back all the while to keep her aware of his presence. She slipped an arm out of the blankets and managed to squeeze his hand, while also using the frosty air to cool her burning body.

When it was all finally over, the Dragonborn laid on the cool planks of the shack and tried to keep her weary eyes open. Javin approached with all the clothes Milos had lifted from the pack and indicated for Milos to leave them alone. The Argonian frowned but complied, and gently stroked the Dragonborn's head once before he left.

Javin placed the cotton shirt on the floor in front of her. "Put this on, all right? You remember the drill."

She nodded solemnly and reached out for the piece of clothing while the mage's back was turned. She had to re-coordinate herself slowly, arm by arm, but managed it more easily than the last time. It was her legs that had always been worse off when dressing again; the feeling of there supposed to be a tail was a very confusing one, but it would drift away like a stick in the river come noon.

The shirt on and fastened, Javin very gingerly handed the Dragonborn her undergarments. And when she'd pulled them on (the breast band having to slip underneath her shirt), he handed her the cloth pants she'd picked out while he found something especially intriguing to watch on the roof.

Once she was fully dressed, Javin took the blankets to the corner of the room with the backpacks and then hurried back to offer her support to stand, even though she was already halfway on her feet. Shaky, but getting there. He positioned her arm around his shoulders and slowly led her to the table where papers were still strewn about. He lowered her into Milos' seat, then returned to the packs to grab salted venison jerky for her to nibble on, which she did very haltingly once he'd handed them over. Even though the Dragonborn's stomach was snarling, clearly furious for lacking the meal her other half had wanted to hunt for, she deliberately ensured she was only eating to keep her energy up, not to satisfy herself. She had become far too tired before, about two months prior, and they hadn't been able to leave the shack until the late afternoon while she rested.

Milos knocked and, hearing no resounding warnings, he entered the shack and put his weight against the door to close it firmly. He grinned quite cheekily at the Dragonborn, which somehow managed to accentuate the red markings that circled his eyes and travelled down to his neck, and he rubbed the ridges on the back of his head. She smirked for the first time that morning in response to him.

"Think you can make the trip to Winterhold?" he asked casually as he poured the last of his bottle of Honningbrew Mead into his goblet.

She nodded very moderately and ran her fingers through her hair. Her Nord-like pale skin was contrasted by the dark brown locks of her Imperial half. Her eyes, not dark like a typical Imperial but a cool and calm shade of green somehow from her Imperial mother, were locked onto Milos' goblet. The Argonian took a quick gulp then handed it to her, and she chugged it down as well as any Nord. Coughed a bit at the end, but that was to be attributed to her sore throat.

Milos took back his goblet and placed it on the table. She rubbed her eyes to fight off the exhaustion, and that was when Milos found an appropriate cloak for her to wear for the trek back. Unfortunately, that aided greatly in her grogginess. Frowning with only a corner of his mouth, Milos helped her to stand and adjusted the greatsword made of jade glass and gold trim on his back and got down on a knee.

"C'mon, 'Dragonborn'," he jeered in the friendliest manner he could portray. "I'll carry you to the inn."

Loathe to accept the offer but knowing her predicament, she nodded and carefully climbed onto his back. Milos gestured for Javin to open the door, and he did so once he'd grabbed the satchels in the corner filled with all their supplies. They were about a kilometre west outside of Winterhold, far enough to conduct whatever they needed to in private. In that case it was Taryn's lycanthropy, which took them all by surprise a few months ago.

Milos could remember it all with perfect clarity, even if months ago it was just a blur. Ambushed by a man who'd tricked her to commit a crime which led Taryn to flee to Skyrim, she and Milos were reunited when they were captured by the Empire during an ambush against the Stormcloaks. But at the execution in Helgen, a Dragon—no, _the_ Dragon—suddenly attacked the settlement, and wrought havoc. That was when he and Taryn, together again after five long years, were thrust into an adventure with the fate of the Nirn in the balance.

Well, since their adventure had ended, Milos realized that Taryn was the one pushing to finish. First they needed to let Jarl Balgruuf of Whiterun know that Riverwood was in potential danger of a Dragon attack, which led to them defending the city from one, and then Taryn discovered she was Dragonborn by absorbing the slain worm's soul. Then came the Greybeards' call, and because she was too curious about what was going on she heeded it. From there they met the Blades, delved deeper into the conflict tearing Skyrim apart and desperately tried to mend some of the damage to have a chance, however slim, to defeat Alduin the World-Eater, whose destiny as Bringer of the End-Times was to face against the Last Dragonborn. And while Taryn managed to defeat him, there was no guarantee he would not one day return. Although it would not be in their lifetimes.

"Milos?" Taryn croaked near his ear.

"Yes?" asked Milos, and he slowed his pace a step so the Arch-Mage could overtake him.

Taryn took a moment to respond again. Milos, from what he understood, knew it was difficult for her to gather her thoughts after... well, after _that_ ordeal. He felt Taryn's arms tighten around him, and a few of her fingers hooked into the collar of his breastplate.

"I need a bath," she mumbled. "I feel like there's grime on every inch of my back."

"Ugh. And you let me carry you?" Milos jostled her playfully, but that elicited a sudden hiss from Taryn and Milos immediately halted in the snow. "I'm sorry," he said quickly. "Are you all right?"

"... I'm bruised more badly than last time," she murmured, albeit reluctantly. "They're... already on my arms..."

Milos turned his head slowly and carefully, aware of the length of every horn on his head that could potentially connect with her forehead, and tried to sneak a peek. Sure enough there were dark bruises just overtop the bones of her arms that hadn't been there ten minutes ago. The previous month, Sun's Dawn, had elicited green bruising around her spine, her elbows, her knees, her heels and wrists, and a few along her jawline and nose. These ones were certainly worse.

"It's getting worse..." Taryn seemed to shrink a little, and Milos noticed her grip on his collar loosened. "More... forceful."

Milos carefully trod through the snowbanks with haste in his step to catch up with the Arch-Mage, who'd halted his advance to await them. Milos motioned that they needed to pick up their pace for Winterhold and gently put Taryn in the snow momentarily to switch her position from his back to his arms so he could jog without discomforting her new injuries, even if they'd mostly disappear by the end of the new day.

"Close your eyes if you want," Milos advised. "You're going straight to bed at the inn."

The words were barely out of his mouth before Taryn had already surrendered to exhaustion. Even the snow wasn't bothering her sleep, thanks to the cloak she was wrapped in. Milos cradled her with every care and stomped a path through the snow that Javin could follow in until they found the road just south of Winterhold. In mere moments of travelling north they located the city and slipped into the Frozen Hearth Inn under cover of snow and what shadows remained.

There was a severe lack of patrons within the establishment, and the innkeeper, a Nord on the older side of middle-age, was fast asleep in a toasty bedroll behind the counter. Careful not to make a sound even with all his heavy armour, Milos crept into one of the rooms they'd paid for at the far side of the hall and shut the door soundlessly behind him. Javin helped to lift the sheets so Milos could slide Taryn into bed, and when he made sure she was appropriately comfortable Milos bade Javin a good night and trekked to his own room across the hall.

Javin considered following, but lingered when he frisked over Taryn once more. The bed was chilly, not what her lingering fever needed, so he plucked the warming pan from the wall beside the door and let himself out in the direction of the smouldering fire at the centre of the main hall, just adjacent to the rooms. For a few moments Javin meticulously gathered coals and placed them within, then let the pan heat for a few moments more near the flame on the stone ledge built around the fire. Satisfied, Javin lifted and balanced it to Taryn's room and slid it under the sheets at the foot of her bed. He checked over her once more. The bruises that had formed were nasty dark splotches that seemed to hollow her face, giving it an almost sickly look. Sighing, Javin stroked her head once, straightened his robes and then left the inn for the College.


	2. The Lycan

Chapter One:

The Lycan

 _ **6 First Seed, 4E 202**_

Taryn awoke from her slumber late in the morning with her back sore and her head groggy. Paltry amounts of frosty air seeped in from under her doorway and chilled her exposed arm to the point where small bumps had formed. Drained but fairly lucid, she slipped her arm beneath the covers and yawned. She could feel barely any pain around her face, which reassured her that her ordeal, for the month at least, had ended. That also served to inform her that she'd healed a fair bit and needed to pry herself from the pillow.

With an enormous effort, Taryn peeled the covers off of herself and sat up in the bed. The warmth at the foot of the straw mattress alluded to a warming pan that had recently been filled with fresh coal. Every part of her felt crummy and unkempt, as it did after every time Masser was full, but Taryn focused every effort on stumbling painstakingly towards a beige pack on the circular table between two simple wooden chairs. It wasn't a long trek, but the grogginess was taking its toll, although it was wearing off by the time she reached the bag and meticulously unclasped the metal buckles holding it together. Within was her leather armour and gloves, and a fresh change of clothes, a welcome sight once Taryn realized her clothes (including the cloak she wore that had been neglected to be removed) were sticking to her skin thanks to the excess perspiration she'd wonderfully accumulated.

Grumbling, Taryn shed the cloak, grabbed her leather boots sitting idly beside the table, a pair of woolen socks, undergarments and a soft, plain shirt and trousers to change into. Thankfully there was no mental delirium and she could slip on her trousers easily enough without trying to convince herself that her tail was missing. Last month had been a nightmare for that, but then again Taryn hadn't fallen asleep beforehand and tried to convince Milos, Javin and Heimdall that she was perfectly fine, except for the lack of the aforementioned limb. Was it a limb? Taryn couldn't remember. And honestly she didn't very much care. All she wanted was some hot food and a warm bath, now that the draft from under her door was beginning to agitate her skin. The door to the entrance of the Frozen Hearth had to be open. From the rustling outside her room, Taryn assumed the innkeeper Dagur was hauling wood and kindling inside. The bristles of a sweeping brush were busy near her door. Haran, Dagur's wife, was cleaning.

Taryn absently drifted to the mirror hanging on her wall by the door and looked herself over. She was haggard and had her hair in a mess, so she raked her fingers through its dark brown thickness until she could pass for a decent human being. She certainly _felt_ sloppier than she looked, which was a relief but didn't stave her desire for a bath. Her scars were still prominent against her skin, especially the jagged one on her face. The first bit of it, above her right eye, had been inflicted by a rock thrown by a Thalmor soldier as she'd crossed the border into Skyrim. The one below her right eye was an uncomely mess inflicted by a knife. It hadn't helped that she'd been screaming at the time of its infliction. That was why it was called torture. _I should see a face sculptor... Try to see if they can remove these,_ Taryn thought while rotating her face to view it from every angle. The first was vertical, and the second diagonal as it trailed down her cheek and over her lips until it reached the top of her chin.

Taryn sighed, and then slapped her cheeks with enough force to give them some healthy colour before she twisted the copper door handle and swung the wooden door open. Like Taryn had thought, Haran was busying herself with tidying the floor and the entrance to the inn was left open. Haran spotted Taryn almost instantly and put a smile on her face. At first their odd group had left both Dagur and Haran apprehensive of Taryn, but their coin was good and they were business in an otherwise slow market in Winterhold.

"Good morning!" the Nord greeted while wearing her business smile. "Is there anything I can get you? Food? Drink?"

"How much for a bath?" asked Taryn, and her eyes wandered to the two closed-off rooms across the hall where Milos and Eduard slept. Months ago when the Dragon Crisis was more than just gab and gossip that trumped the Civil War, their larger group consisting of Milos, Javin, Eduard, Harbinger Heimdall Jorgenson, Master Thief Cha'qim, Dark Brotherhood assassin Aldren Ebor, and finally herself, had to sleep at least three to a single room because of low funds. Since the Dragon Crisis ended though, the adventuring and sidetracking had given them a lump sum of earned coin through bounties and an impressive amount of septims that had been looted from dead bandits, giant hordes, and many old forts that may or may not have been haunted.

"That'll be six septims, miss," responded Haran with a warmer, much more comely smile. "Per resident, of course."

Taryn recognized the woman's glance into her room, so Taryn slipped back inside, fished into the bag on the table for her coin purse and counted out eighteen septims for the innkeeper. Haran, with a satisfied and continuously accommodating grin, counted them again as she slipped them into the inn's fund purse and then fled into the basement to retrieve the water stored there with the mead and ale.

As she massaged the back of her neck, Taryn stepped over to the fire in the centre of the hall and warmed herself. She kept herself busy while seated in a chair nearby by stoking the flame occasionally with the poker and allowing her eyes to wander and take in her surroundings. The vaulted roof of the inn was commonplace among Nord architecture, unlike how it was back in Cyrodiil. In Skyrim, most of the structures were made of elm and were charmingly rugged. Being inside an inn or a home made Taryn feel as though she was camping in the Heartlands of Cyrodiil, although the draft and the snow spilling into the entrance reminded her otherwise. But when she viewed a building made of stone from a nearby quarry, she felt as though she was transported back to Anvil, where she'd grown up. Of course the stones were quite a bit greyer in Skyrim and Anvil's stone seemed to give off a luxurious shine, but Taryn admittedly preferred Skyrim. The homes made much more sense as they were far more practical. Unless one lived in the extravagance of Solitude or Windhelm, or even Markarth, for that matter, the comforts of studies, dens and verandas were few and far between.

Several minutes later the bath was ready. Taryn thanked Haran and instantly stepped into the threshold of her room while shutting the door firmly behind herself. Nothing could quite amount to the reprieve of a hot bath after a full moon. It was different with Secunda than it was with Masser. Masser made her change into a hefty, hirsute creature keen on escaping the magical cage Javin would craft to wreak havoc and slaughter anyone and anything. Secunda only seemed to have an effect on her mind. The day before it and its night, Taryn would be quick to anger and often have to keep herself in check. Some of her emotions would boil over and she would feel the digits on her hands and feet go numb. Heimdall had told her it was a sign that she was about to change without Masser, so unless she was aware exactly what was going on she'd be all mad and hairy. Still, there was very little she could do about it. She just kept herself isolated and read books to preoccupy herself so every single movement her friends made wouldn't make her want to snap their bones in her hands or her transformed jaws.

Still, Taryn had committed to being a Werewolf. Only her Dragon Blood had kept it at bay, laying dormant in her mind but slowly scouting a path to the surface. It was a completely different being. She wasn't herself when it happened. They were just two who had to share a body, and as Taryn had reasoned, she wouldn't much like the prospect of being trapped forever, so she let it have its few hours. But that didn't make changing any better. Always, since the very first time, it felt like she was enveloped in torment. Every spasm, every strain, every convulsion was the thing changing her body for its means. As a person she could pick up a sword and suddenly become a deadly warrior, but _it_ was two-hundred pounds of pure killing machine. Taryn would fade into the blackness of her subconscious, aware that her mind and body was still awake but that something else was helming the movements, the gestures. Even if she wasn't privy to exactly what it was doing, she was aware.

The change back was no less arduous. Halfway through the change the being would finally be relieved of the devastating ache and Taryn would be there once more to take everything it was leaving behind, just as it had done hours before when Masser rose. The awareness she would have of her muscles sliding back into a more familiar shape that she could control, the contortions in her bones that fractured and popped to a human design, the heaviness in her chest and gut as her organs compressed to accommodate her shrinking torso... Never could Taryn put it into words. She'd tried, once, to help Javin with his notes and analyze the goings-on in her body, to give him her account. But the moment she'd endeavoured, she'd realized her thinking was in shambles. That struggle to regain her sense of self only made everything worse. By the next morning she'd forgotten the words she'd so desperately tried to string together and gave up entirely. Javin had noted it must have been some swelling of the brain, which would account for the pounding in her head.

Taryn slipped into the steamy waters of the bath and chose not to linger on those times. She almost instantly submerged her head and gave her scalp a quick scrub before reaching for a bar of soap placed on the small table beside the wooden bath, and she didn't stop washing until she felt significantly less like a grimy woman who lived in a cathouse commonplace for sailors. Satisfied, she remained prone in the water until it developed a chill. She took that as her leave and hopped out, then dried herself as quickly as she could. Taryn always had something in the back of her mind that not drying fast enough would have her smelling like wet dog.

It was nearly midday by the time Taryn had fully dressed into her leather armour. It was gifted to her by Cha'qim, who ran the Thieves Guild, styled in their own peculiar design. It was sorely unlike the leather armour Nords commonly forged. Where the Nords had a battle skirt, the guild had trousers. The chest of Nordic armour was forged for some semblance of defence, whereas the guild made it breathable and easy to maneuver in. And there were no pauldrons to speak of that would deflect incoming blows on the guild armour. Still, Taryn was glad to have it, and even happier that Cha'qim had made certain there was no coat of arms on her armour that linked her to the guild.

As soon as she fastened all the belts on her boots, her gauntlets, and her torso, Taryn hooked a coin purse to her belt filled with a fair amount of gold, and then moved on to her sword, Dragonbane. Cha'qim had swiped it from an old storeroom in the heart of Sky Haven Temple, the base of the ancient Blades, and then chose to give it to Taryn. The Imperial was thrilled to have it. Not only was it a unique weapon with a curved blade, black leather wrappings on its hilt and bronze coiled snakes acting as a guard, but it was also an enchanted weapon. Lightning swept across the blade and kept it sharp much longer than a normal blade. And if Taryn used her magicka to augment it, she could create a wave of lightning where she swept Dragonbane, though it consumed her strength substantially. She'd discovered that gem when battling a Dragon Priest at the summit of Skuldafn, where the portal to Sovngarde was.

She slid the blade into its sheathe, looked herself over to ensure she was properly garbed, then grabbed the heavy cloak she'd dropped near the table with her bag and swung it over her shoulders so she could brave the cold. Milos and Eduard were no doubt with Javin, or at least within the walls of the College. Since Taryn had made so many visits recently, Faralda (the High Elf who made certain to test all who dared approach the treacherous bridge to the College) had been much kinder. Yes, Taryn had taken an immediate disliking to her, but getting to know Faralda made Taryn less hostile. She berated herself often for being too quick to judge some days and too naive on others. Not all Nords were migrating mountains of muscle and beards, and not all High Elves were Thalmor. It was just as simple as that. Taryn felt as though she would soon have to gather the courage for an apology.

As per usual, Faralda was lounging under the archway ahead of the bridge that shielded her from the snow. Her heavy cloak was wrapped tightly around herself, and her breath was visible in the stark chill of the day. The clouds blotted out the sun above, hindering any other source of warmth Faralda desired without having to deplete her stores of magicka. When she spotted Taryn approaching she waved and let a half-smile cross her face.

"Good morning," hailed the mer. "You've slept in again, I see."

Taryn smirked and laughed broadly. "Well, what can I say? The tavern isn't very quiet during happy hour. And considering the scars on my face I suppose I need the beauty sleep."

"And I'll bet the drums last night helped none."

"Drums?" asked Taryn curiously.

Faralda's brow swept upward in surprise. "Oh? You didn't hear them?" When Taryn shook her head, Faralda gestured for Taryn to approach a bit more closely. A guard was wandering nearby for patrol. The Winterhold was pro-Stormcloak and supported Ulfric's claim to the throne. The Jarl of Winterhold, Korir, held no love for the College and considered himself one of Ulfric's "true Nords", but it was known through the courts that Korir's opinions were hardly considered or outright ignored. It was hearsay she'd heard from Jarl Balgruuf of Windhelm and she had no firsthand knowledge. Truly, all she really needed to know was Jarl Korir very much disliked how the Dragonborn (herself) had made Ulfric give up Riften to gain Markarth, and also had Jarl Stormcloak pay for a massacre in Karthwasten. Taryn, during that hateful political gamble that still inflicted headaches upon her, had worn a set of daedric armour to mask her identity. Considering Korir's anger towards her, she was glad she'd done so. No one but Jarl Balgruuf and Jarl Elisif really knew her true face, and they were kind enough to keep quiet about her.

"There was a skirmish to the west," said Faralda, "near Saarthal. The Empire tried to spring a sneak attack but accidentally sounded their war drums too early. The Stormcloaks were alerted. I haven't gotten word of the outcome of the battle yet, but the guards in the city are a great deal more vigilant. They're stopping travelers near the inn and questioning them to determine if they're Imperial spies."

"Oh. Sounds like I'll need to purchase identification then."

Faralda scoffed playfully. "Oh, no need. Many Nords don't have any to speak of. And you have Arch-Mage Javin to help you along if the guards give you issues."

"Provided they'll take the word of a Redguard mage over a suspicious Imperial accompanied by a towering Argonian and a man who looks like he stepped out of an ancient barrow."

"... I think it would be beneficial to get identification as an alternative plan." Faralda observed the sky, and slowly her smile faded to a serious line. "Ah, it's about time for my lecture."

"Teaching again?"

"Yes. The Synod and the College of Whispers have been trying to make political gains and want the College of Winterhold on their side while opposing the other. Ironically, I don't believe either knows that the College has received these conflicting letters."

"And you're trying to teach everyone to mind their own business?"

"That's the hope, yes. Since the emperor's assassination what little political hold they had was swept away. Now they clamber for a position in hopes to gain standing, but they don't desire to pursue any real research." Faralda took a deep breath. Taryn assumed she was very dedicated to explaining such a thing to the academics within the College, considering how she had the lecture every week. "We are dedicated to our craft. It insults me that they would assume otherwise and try to lure what precious few mages we have here to their ranks. I won't stand for it."

Taryn smiled. "Well, I hope you're getting through to them. I'd hate to see any mages go rogue and try to grab power for the sake of it. Skyrim's having enough difficulty trying to decide whether or not mages are true 'sons and daughters of Skyrim' instead of the hateful pranksters they despise. A slough of necromancers gleefully traipsing around the province would have the College burned to the ground."

"Thankfully, only the College of Whispers focuses so dearly on necromancy. Anything to become a thorn in the side of the Synod." Faralda gestured towards the narrow, crumbling bridge that sat beyond the archway, and Taryn followed her agreeably. The sharp descent below was made more treacherous to so brazenly walk above with the cutting wind above the cliffside as the two women made way to the College. "Thankfully, it seems Arch-Mage Kelco has most of the same gratifying entry rules as the late Arch-Mage Aren. Most of the students of knowledge here are more dedicated to the understanding of their craft rather than the pursuit of practical jokes and reviving the undead."

"Personally, if I died I'd never want to be reanimated. If I'm dead I'd like to stay that way thank-you very much. But I'm sure my desires would fly over the heads in the College of Whispers like a dragon to a mountain."

Faralda's cavalier grin returned. "Well, I'm certainly glad that Arch-Mage Kelco was successful in making friends with the Dragonborn. You're travelling Skyrim as a mercenary now, yes? Is it possible you could take care of a problem for me?"

Taryn shrugged. "For the right price, perhaps. We're not formally mercenaries though. We're... versatile."

"That's agreeable, Greystone. I only want a little reconnaissance, after all. For now, at least."

They slowed to take a particularly decrepit section of the bridge one at a time, and as they finally crossed into safer, more stable territory, Faralda pulled her cloak a bit more snugly around her shoulders. The chill was beginning to bite Taryn, too, and she was suddenly glad she'd grabbed the heavy fur cloak she'd woken up in earlier.

"Is Nirya trying to convince you that you hate her again?" Taryn asked incredulously. Nirya, an Altmer mage, was utterly convinced that Faralda and herself were rivals within the College, although it was certainly very one-sided. Faralda was practically ignoring the woman.

Taryn assumed she'd hit the nail on the head because Faralda stopped below the grasping mage statue at the centre of the snow-speckled courtyard of the College and rubbed her brow. "I fear she's... overstepped her bounds. I left my research notes in the Arcanaeum one night when I was too exhausted to continue. Rather than gather my things I left it by the books I was using. You know Urag gro-Shub?"

"Yes, the librarian. I've met him before once."

"Well, he's strict with his books. Most are ancient tomes, the only volumes remaining in Tamriel. And he has rules about them. One of my research materials involved one such book so I couldn't just bring it with me. I've left research there before, and I did it again at that time."

Taryn smirked. "Let me guess: your notes were gone when you went for them later."

The Altmer's face fell. "Well... yes. I suspect Nirya hid them. Theft is a serious crime within the College and can be punishable by expulsion, but with... recent events throughout Skyrim, it would be cruel to do so. Stormcloaks may react unfavourably to an Altmer mage. And she still has her uses around the College. If possible I'd like to keep this quiet."

"On what grounds, besides her dislike of you, do you think she stole them? It could have been an apprentice. Or Urag put them somewhere by accident."

"I asked Urag. He didn't see anything regarding them, but the only other person in the Arcanaeum that night was Nirya, doing her own research." She sighed heavily. "Please find them. If Nirya has them, retrieve them. I'll pay you for your work."

A sly grin swept onto Taryn's features. "Well, I'll try to get to the bottom of it. And here I thought spying was my mother's line of work..." After a moment, Taryn added, "Allegedly," and made way for the Arcanaeum after Faralda left for the Hall of Countenance off to the right of the courtyard. Taryn guessed to gather her notes for the lecture on the Synod and the College of Whispers.

Two heavy wooden doors with great metal handles swung inward to the will of two apprentice mages deep in conversation about magical theories and the relation of Aetherius to Oblivion, and allowed Taryn a speedy entry into the Hall of the Elements, where the Master Wizard Tolfdir was answering questions some of his students had about his most recent lesson as he gathered his things, albeit slowly. Taryn didn't make it that far into the broad, circular room though; the moment she entered the Hall of the Elements, she immediately made for the small door on her right to a lower level of the College that withheld the Arcanaeum. Whenever their troupe travelled to Winterhold, Taryn rarely ever had to stray from her usual path. The small cabin, then the inn, and then the Arch-Mage's quarters to listen to his most recent observations of her latest transformation. It was only Eduard who spent his time in the Arcanaeum during the latter event.

So Taryn was unsurprised to see the aforementioned Dragon Priest buried in an old tome restricted to most students in the College, let alone a stranger. But Urag had made a special exception for him, considering Eduard spent his spare time helping Urag to translate some of the more ancient tomes written in the hands of the Dragon Priests of old, considering he technically was one of them. Eduard, whose real name was Lokbruniik (Heimdall had given him an easier name for their group to remember, much to Eduard's chagrin), had charged into battle against the ancient Tongues, Nordic heroes who banished Alduin into time for Taryn to eventually bring down. His mask had somehow given him the power to see her, and he leapt at her as she watched the scene unfold at the summit of the Throat of the World. Eduard then found himself stuck in a time a thousand years ahead of his own. And while Taryn certainly felt sympathetic to his plight, she couldn't help but often have him remind her of why she even bothered to keep him around.

Such a time was this. Eduard glanced up from the tome he read and noted her presence at the door while she approached. As per usual, he was garbed in his strange violet robes with gold hems, each layer closer to his body becoming less sweeping and instead holding snugly to his body. His mask, which he never removed in the presence of others (as part of his culture, which Taryn found extremely trying), was a gentle shade of gold, just lighter than the trim on his robes. It had no mouth hole, two eyelets, and two tusks resembling a mammoth's curving gently upwards on either side of where his mouth must have been. In mere seconds he focused his attention back onto his book and completely ignored her existence whatsoever.

"Good morning to you too," grumbled Taryn as she strode past him.

"Were it only so," retorted the Dragon Priest.

There were days she and Eduard would get along well enough, and other days they could barely stand each other's presence. The latter typically ended with some harsh words against each other's culture and practices. Taryn was eager to avoid such a confrontation that day, so she ignored his reply and concentrated on the Orc she was approaching. Urag hadn't changed since she last met him: musty-coloured robes, thick, greying beard, receding hairline, and a very intimidating, heavy-set presence. She couldn't think of anyone stupid enough to attempt to steal any of his well-kept books, let alone another's research papers while his back was turned. Taryn could picture Urag dangling the thief from a bridge if he apprehended them. In that case, Faralda might have a bit of a show.

"Hello, Urag," addressed the Imperial. "I was hoping you'd be able to help. I'm here on Faralda's behalf. She said she spoke to you about her missing research notes?"

The Orc was busy signing a few forms behind his desk. They looked to be duplicates of one another, so Taryn assumed it to be some sort of permission form. He motioned for her to wait a moment while he finished reading one, then in a very elegant hand, not typical for his people, he signed his name and gave Taryn his full attention.

"Faralda's research notes?" Taryn was glad he'd at least been listening. His heavy brow knitted when Taryn nodded. "I'll tell you what I told her: last I saw them, they were on that table over there." Urag pointed to a table south-east of his desk, where there were still tomes sitting out and gathering what dust Urag hadn't got to yet. His Arcanaeum was, as always, a pristine space of cleanliness. "I locked up, went to sleep, and in the morning they were still there."

"They were?"

"Yes. But later in the day, when Faralda came to retrieve them, they'd disappeared. My books were untouched."

"And no one else has access to the Arcanaeum while you're absent?"

"Apart from the Arch-Mage, no. Arch-Mage Kelco's master key can unlock any part of the College, whether it be a door or a chest. It helps skip the annoying procedures an instructor may have to go through when there's reasonable doubt an apprentice has been thieving."

That piqued Taryn's interest. She wondered if Javin could have lent his key to Nirya, but at the moment Taryn had no real proof Nirya was behind anything. Faralda was completely within reason to suspect the woman so fond of trying Faralda's patience that Taryn was pondering whether or not to question Nirya. But instead of deciding such a thing, Taryn thanked Urag and made for the door. She resolved to ask Javin about his key and whom he'd lent it out to, if he did so. Taryn passed by Eduard again and he paid her no heed. She was glad he decided that they didn't need to pursue a verbal sparring match.

Taryn ascended the narrow staircase until she emerged into the Hall of the Elements once more. Faralda's frustration showed on her face while Tolfdir was shooing an apprentice out of her lecture space, the same one who'd remained with him after class to ask him questions. Taryn crossed the floor to the door on the left of the hall's entrance while Tolfdir and the apprentice passed behind her. The old mage was praising the young man's curious mind but also giving him a sharp scolding concerning time and one's patience. Smirking, the Imperial then entered the door to the Arch-Mage's quarters and jogged up the steps to hasten her pace. No doubt Milos and Javin were wondering if she'd even gotten out of bed. At least she wouldn't have to fight with them about her lack of a tail like last time.

Javin's personal quarters were odd to Taryn architecturally. As with the rest of the College, the room was circular. A large tree with a thick trunk stretched its limbs almost around the entirety of the room. At its roots grew a small garden of alchemical ingredients, and small candlelight spells sparkled near the tree to illuminate it. Behind the tree, hanging from a stone wall less than halfway up to the domed roof, were College banners. And beyond that, on the other side of the wall, would be Javin's bed and most of his storage such as barrels, chests, display cases, and his safe, where most of his ill-begotten daedric artefacts were stored. Beyond the archway to the left was his books and tomes, and other sorts of reading materials he was currently enjoying. The archway to the right led to a table with small foodstuffs, three chairs, and two persons enjoying a meal together. The two in question were exactly who Taryn was looking for: Milos and Javin.

Arch-Mage Javin Kelco was a Redguard who'd left Hammerfell when the fighting against the Thalmor was at its worst, in the aftermath of the signing of the White-Gold Concordat. Magic beyond destruction had never quite sat well with the people of the Alik'r desert, so it was an obvious choice for Javin to make the trip to Skyrim. Like it had many a mage before him, power appealed to the younger Javin and when the College of Winterhold could not sate his thirst, he turned to the daedra. Taryn wasn't certain how much time he'd spent among them, but it was enough to accumulate some artefacts and win favours from them. But Javin had turned away from that and returned to the College, and, years later, helped to save it from destruction. While he was older now, with speckles of grey tickling his thick beard and streaking his tightly wound dreadlocks, youthful mischief and curiosity hadn't escaped his dark eyes. That curiosity, Taryn assumed, was what led Javin to study her and not try to kill her outright. And she was thankful to him.

Milos, on the other hand, Taryn had known since she'd lived in Anvil. He didn't come to the orphanage at the same time, though. In fact, if it hadn't been for her, Milos would have been sold as a slave. A timely intervention, an orphanage's head's debt, and a bite to a slaver's ear had rescued him. They'd been inseparable until Milos left to return to his homeland of Black Marsh to discover the reason behind his parents' deaths. That they'd become Werecrocodiles before they'd died left him with a grand dislike of were-creatures. Discovering that Taryn was one, which was even a surprise to herself, had driven him away. Thankfully he'd returned, but Taryn and Milos still had to bridge the gap that had been created. Still, his being there when she was suffering helped her, in her eyes.

The inky-scaled Argonian noticed her at the doorway and stood. His armoured knees bumped the table that Javin was leaning intently against while he read his notes and jostled the Arch-Mage to attention as well. Never one for the quiet approach, Milos' strides toward Taryn echoed against the walls of the Arch-Mage's quarters as his heavy armour bounced against his shoulders with every step. Taryn rolled her eyes and reached out for his glass pauldrons the moment he was within reach. He was much taller than her, but she didn't at all mind the extra effort.

"You didn't tighten your straps again..." mumbled Taryn as she fixed them for him. "If you keep forgetting we'll alert every guard in the city when we're trying to sneak away."

Milos smirked at her and took her arm. When he pushed her sleeve upwards to her elbow and began an examination for bruises, she waved at Javin with her free arm.

"Good morning," she greeted.

"To you as well, Taryn. How was your rest?" replied the Arch-Mage.

 _Now that's a good and sensible greeting,_ thought Taryn when her mind returned to the Dragon Priest in the Arcanaeum. "It was a good one. I didn't panic when there wasn't a tail this morning." She grinned plainly. "Progress. And thank-you, whichever of you two put that pan in my bed. I think it helped."

"Javin put it in. I maintained it," mumbled Milos, and returned Taryn's arm to her. "The bruises are gone. They healed up fairly quickly."

"I checked when I had a bath earlier. By the way, I paid for two others, so you can bathe when you get back to your room at the inn." Taryn playfully pinched her nose. "You stink like a sweaty Nord."

"And if you really bathed I'd think you'd actually smell better than a fish." The playful banter was a welcome relief. Taryn had been concerned that she'd have to stand through Milos' silence for the next few days, as was the usual routine. Milos finally let her pass to get to the table where Javin had resumed sitting and reading. Taryn occupied the chair beside him, to his right, and Milos returned to his seat directly across from the Arch-Mage.

Taryn cleared her throat. "So, beyond the bruising, were there any other changes? Observations?"

Javin perused his notes with a shrewd eye and, after a bit of combing, discovered a page of parchment he'd been searching for. "Nothing apart from the last three months. Thankfully you still don't collapse like the first time. I can honestly say that was alarming. Or was it three? Two?" He paused to read his older notes and grinned when he found what he was looking for. "Ah, yes. Three. Well, of course I'm excluding the bruising. That's gotten worse."

"I noticed..."

"It appears, and remember this is still just a working theory, so long as you abstain from the lycan's purpose, which is to kill and feast upon dead man flesh, the bruises will become more severe."

"And if she keeps avoiding it?" inserted Milos. "What if it gets worse? What then?"

Javin shrugged futilely. "We won't know that answer unless we pursue it, I fear. On one hand we could try to capture another bandit like the first time and let her kill him when the time comes, on the other we could find a way to summon Hircine and ask him directly, though not without some sort of price in the form of sport. Alternatively, Taryn, you could continue to suffer through the after-effects of this change."

The Imperial sighed and rubbed her temples. "Wonderful. I suppose I'll use that as my leading line: 'let me eat your man-flesh!' I'm not sure how many prospective men around Skyrim would receive that."

Milos forced a smirk, which made Taryn instantly feel guilty about the jest. Even if it hadn't been directed at Milos, it was one thing being a lycan and another situation entirely trying to make light of it, especially in front of Milos. But, like he'd promised months ago, he was trying. "Unless you find another Werewolf who might find that attractive, you'll be out of luck. Try it on Heimdall. He might think it's charming."

"I'd sooner try it on Eduard, thanks," mumbled Taryn. Her eyes widened when she realized how sharp she'd sounded. "What I mean is, well, I really have no interest in Heimdall. Not in that way. He's my friend and I want it to stay that way."

"Last time we were in Whiterun he all but wore an Amulet of Mara."

"And if he did I'd probably ignore it, to be honest."

"... So, you're saying Eduard has more sexual appeal than Heimdall?"

"That is _not_ what I'm saying and you know it, Milos! Don't twist my words like that!" snapped Taryn, much to Milos' amusement. "But if you really want to walk down that road, how's Camilla Valerius doing?"

Milos couldn't physically pale, but he cringed enough to make Taryn suppose that if he had colour beyond his scales, he would have right then. "U-Uh... That's... nothing, anymore..."

"Oh, don't even try that with me. I know you weren't just buying supplies when we passed through Riverwood. The village is so small word of you walking into the trader's spread to the inn like wildfire. Should have seen the bard. He nearly broke his lute in half when he heard you and she were fraternizing again."

"For the love of Mara! So _that's_ why that old woman was glaring at me when I went back to the inn...!"

"That, and it looked like Faendal was ready to put an arrow in your skull. If you aren't careful those two might join forces to keep you from Camilla."

While the Argonian stewed over his future lynching, Javin finally caught Taryn's attention and directed it to some of the notes he had written on two different sheets of parchment as comparisons. "Because of the severity of the bruising this time around, I'll see if I can't get something made to help lessen the after-effects of your change. Unfortunately, it may take some time to create something like this. We won't be able to test it for another month, if I'm even able to find the correct formula within that amount of time."

Taryn's eyes barely skimmed the pages. Honestly, she didn't much want to read any of it. Not because of a lack of interest, mind, but it was simply easier to forget the goings-on of those specific nights. She'd already lost a day of travel because of her bed rest, and she wasn't keen to spend much more time sitting on her backside.

"I suggest you remain one more night though, Taryn," proceeded Javin, which had Taryn impulsively frown. "I want to ensure you're well enough for travel. You push yourself too hard, and I don't need your joints locking up in old age because you're simply too stubborn to see you're still unwell."

"But I feel fine..." The Imperial crossed her arms and kept her frown in place, but the heavy sigh that followed her declaration indicated her surrender. "All right. I have something I can do around the College for the next few hours, anyhow."

Milos finally pried himself out of his stupor and glared pointedly at Taryn. "You didn't stick your nose into anything again, did you?"

A guilty smile in place, Taryn dared not face Milos and instead asked Javin, "To whom and when did you lend out your master key last?"

And beside her, Taryn could hear Milos mutter, "This is the reason we're never going to lose that priest..."


	3. Shortcut

Chapter Two:

Shortcut

 _ **7 First Seed, 4E 202**_

"... And that's where I ended up finding your notes."

Taryn stood across from Faralda, who was seated at the small wooden table in her quarters within the Hall of Countenance, the tower at the College of Winterhold east of the courtyard. It housed the more advanced mages of the College such as Tolfdir, Nirya, and (of course) Faralda, amongst others. Each had their own particular rooms on two separate floors. And after all the running around she'd done through the College, Taryn was gladdened that Faralda's room was on the main floor. She could hardly imagine another climb up a staircase. It reminded her of how she had to stop in and visit the Greybeards as per an arrangement she'd made with Arngeir: check in at High Hrothgar every so often, meditate on Words of Power with them, climb to the summit of the Throat of the World to meditate even more with Paarthurnax the Dragon, and then return to High Hrothgar to listen to Arngeir lecture her on the history of the Greybeards and Dragonborn. It sorely reminded her of the lessons she was forced to attend at chapel back in Anvil.

"You found my notes in an apprentice's chest, Miss Greystone?" recited Faralda doubtfully as she investigated the weighted pile of parchment settled on the table before her. "And he had the key?"

"Honestly, he was just playing a prank with a new potion he was testing." Taryn leaned against the archway into Faralda's room with her arms crossed loosely across her chest. Faralda's room was tidied and her bed made until the little alcove she could call her own was spotless, save for a soul gem on her dresser, away from its kin on the shelf beside her bed. A portrait of a faceless mage battling a necromancer hung above the bed against the wall, far from the candle lit on Faralda's nightstand, where a small, bound leather journal lay. "He just wasn't certain how to return it. But now you've got your notes back and the Arch-Mage has had his key returned."

Faralda seemed satisfied that her research was in her hands once again. She stood swiftly and practically glided over to the armoire with her mage robes, and in a moment she had proffered a modest purse heavy with a decent amount of gold. "Thank-you. I'm relieved Nirya was not involved. I am sure you spoke with Arch-Mage Kelco about the boy's punishment, so I will leave my concerns on the matter there."

"My thanks, Faralda." Taryn gratefully accepted the coin and tied it to her belt, right beside Dragonbane. "Keep an eye on your notes from now on, all right?"

"Of course," responded the mage. "I'd see you out, but I'm behind on my research now. I must prepare for my next session with Urag and reserve the books necessary."

With a wave and a farewell to Faralda, Taryn left the warm halls of the Hall of Countenance behind her and walked into the chilled Skyrim air. The wind had died the previous night, thankfully, and a soft snowfall was gradually descending from the clouds above. The sun had managed to peek most of its light around the clouds, and glistened against the flakes. It was a welcome sight compared to yesterday's harrowing wind and dismal daylight conditions.

Taryn marched forward towards the collapsed bridge and tread carefully across the more ravaged parts. Without hindrance from the bitter wind that forced her to pace herself, it was easier to traverse across. After all, her hair wasn't whipping in her face at every chance it got. Which reminded Taryn that she should begin to tie it, or she might just allow her locks to be a wonderful distraction when she would try to defend herself from some sort of assailant.

It was still early in the morning, but past dawn. The guards had swapped shifts hours ago, and the jarl had since taken his morning stroll around his ravaged city. The snow was up to Taryn's shins, and her boots would have been soaked through or chilled if she hadn't purchased some horker blubber from Birna's Oddments. The months in Skyrim had taught Taryn, Milos, and Eduard some little tricks that the locals had discovered decades ago. Taryn and Milos, having lived in Anvil (Milos had also resided in Black Marsh, although it was temporary), really knew very little about the colder climates and how to live through them beyond a heavy cloak and a fire. Eduard was born in Skyrim, although it was a Skyrim long since passed. The Dragon Priests had largely remained indoors during the winter months. And if they had to make a trip north, it wasn't for long. Eduard had experienced it but hadn't truly lived it.

 _Thank the gods for Heimdall,_ Taryn thought with a grin. _I'll thank him properly for the blubber idea when I see him next._

The trudge to the inn was uneventful. Taryn had noticed a few lingering glances directed at her when she passed the hold guards, but it appeared she was recognized. It seemed easier to believe she was a frequent visitor to the College rather than an Imperial spy conspiring with the mages to bring destruction to Winterhold and harm the Stormcloak rebellion. Just a quick nod to the guards and she was on her way. But the guards were still on edge from yesterday's skirmish between the Empire and the rebel Stormcloaks. The premature drumming on the Empire's side proved to be their downfall, and only a few managed to escape. When the wounded Stormcloaks arrived in Winterhold later that day, Jarl Korir dispatched a few fresh men under Kai Wet-Pommel's command, who was a low-ranking Stormcloak officer, to pursue the remaining Imperial troops. Any questions on whether or not Taryn and her companions were spies would have to wait until they returned, but by then they'd already have departed.

Taryn's entrance to the inn and her habitual kicking of her boots against the doorframe to rid herself of excess snow clinging to the leather made her privy to overhear a conversation between a local and a travelling merchant who were seated at a bench and enjoying a pint of mead together. Neither man was very remarkable, but the merchant was a broad-shouldered Nord with a scar on his eye. And he was older, so Taryn assumed he may have had some hand in the fight against the Thalmor years before Taryn's birth.

"I heard there's trouble on the roads. That true, friend?" asked the local. Milos usually commented about Taryn's impeccable ability to stick her nose into others' business, so he often overlooked how her ears were always eavesdropping when she could. Often times she'd forget that she was doing so. It was one of those times, yet it was interesting enough. Which road?

"Aye." The veteran took a long drink and sighed as soon as his lips parted from the tankard. "South o' here. Windhelm's blocked off. I'm not looking forward to braving those mountains to the west to get to Dawnstar, but the Stormcloaks weren't forthcoming when they told me it was closing. Wouldn't say how long or nothin'."

"What for?" pressed the villager. Taryn kept herself busy to have it appear she wasn't being completely rude. Sure, she felt badly. But the information would certainly help their trip and save time.

"Dunno," the man admitted. "I'll have to hire some help to get to Dawnstar the hard way, or I stay here for an extended period and watch my earnings dwindle like my pint."

"You may not want to go east. Battle happened a night ago between those Imperial dogs and Ulfric's army. Idiots sounded their war drums too soon, and Kai Wet-Pommel set out after them."

"Ah. So risk looking like some horse-shite Imperial spy or stay here with the mages. You know the saying about the rock and the hard place..."

The Imperial decided she'd heard enough and made for her room across the hall. Milos and Eduard were likely still asleep, since the night previous they'd enjoyed the tunes of the local bard and drank merrily, though to what Taryn had no idea. As per Javin's instructions, Taryn was helped (forced) into bed at an early time to help the recovery process. Nothing made her feel more useless than being in such a state, but she had no choice. She and her resolve would endure. Though it had certainly surprised her that Eduard was enjoying the songs, much less listening to them. And drinking with Milos? The man never took his mask off in the presence of others.

Though... There had been an exception once. Taryn was bedridden for weeks after the battle with Alduin. She thought she'd never recover, to be honest, but being comatose for the majority of her time appeared to help. That and her lycanthropy. And Javin's skills as a mage... There were many factors that aided in her recovery and she was thankful for each one. But once she'd awoken she was faced with the Dragon Priest. His god defeated, he poured a cup of water for them both and quirked his mask upwards to drink it. Taryn hadn't seen the whole of his face, of course, but she had always felt it to be some sort of gesture. Even if it wasn't intended, she guessed he wouldn't blame her for thinking it.

A few minutes after gathering her things in a pile on her bed and throwing her fur cloak on top of it all, Taryn exited her room, crossed the floor in a few long strides and knocked on Milos' door. She heard some kind of grumbling, but also movement, and he carefully lifted himself from his bed. Satisfied, Taryn walked one door to the right and knocked there as well.

"Eduard?" called the Imperial. "Time to wake up. We're Labrynthian-bound."

"Forgive me if I don't immediately believe you," came Eduard's brusque reply from beyond the door. Taryn was relieved she wouldn't have to deal with awakening a grumpy Dragon Priest. He sounded as though he'd been awake for a while.

"Unless you'd prefer we head to Riften, I suggest you pack your things for the road."

"I suggest you stop being sidetracked by these piteous fools desperate for aid but reluctant to part with their coin."

"You're a true gentleman, Eduard. Silver-tongued and righteous, I see."

The door opened a crack and Eduard, who'd donned his mask, peered at Taryn from the safety of his room. The light wasn't shining correctly into his mask for Taryn to properly witness his glare, but she could feel it like a dagger to her side.

"You're one word from having your tongue ripped out, Dragonborn. It'd be difficult to Shout in that state."

"It would be equally difficult to insult me if I smashed my foot between your legs, wouldn't it?"

Eduard nearly emerged fully from his room, palm brimming with ancient magicka, but Milos appeared and yanked Taryn towards him. Taryn's back struck his gleaming glass armour a bit more roughly than he'd probably intended. Immediately, his hand went to her head and began to ruffle her hair vigorously. All the while, he was watching Eduard.

"Don't mind her," said the Argonian. "She's just a bit more lippy than usual. Always happens when she doesn't get enough sleep at night. Taryn's like an old woman, see. Got a schedule to adhere to."

Whether Eduard actually accepted Milos' pitiable excuse on Taryn's behalf or not, Eduard appeared to sneer but stopped drawing from his magicka pool and stomped back into his room. Taryn watched the door for a few seconds while she mulled over the exchange, then tried to tame the mess Milos had caused on top of her head. Meantime, the Argonian was frowning deeply at her. His hands were at his hips and his chest puffed out indignantly, like an annoyed elder brother.

When she finally met his eyes, Milos clicked his tongue. "You might be in less danger picking a fight if you hit a sleeping bear over the head with a stick," growled Milos. "Or did you forget that he's about as stubborn as you are?"

"I just like to test the boundaries," Taryn grumbled, unamused by the jest. "It helps knowing just how quick he'll be to temper in the day."

"You might be more effective if you just stayed out of each other's way and tried really, _really_ hard to not poke a grumpy Dragon Priest, aye?"

"Oh, but he makes it so easy—."

" _Taryn_ ," hissed Milos, and he lowered his voice. "The last thing you need is to get mad at each other. You could eat him, ever think of that?"

With a wry smile, Taryn replied, "I've been tempted." But at her friend's expression of shock and anger, she rolled her eyes. His yellow ones bored into her like hot coals. "I'm teasing, Milos. He's probably stringy under all those robes."

Milos growled in his throat and let his eyes wander around the inn. Nobody appeared to have heard her. Those within were too deep in conversation to notice or even care, but that didn't comfort the Argonian in the slightest.

"Oh, don't curl your tail. I'm only teasing."

Milos' lip curled up in annoyance, exposing a few sharp fangs. "Try not to tease when others could hear. Rather, how about you don't at all? Something like that isn't made to joke about."

Taryn's hands settled on her hips, and she glared indignantly at the Argonian, the perfect imitation of his own posture. "Well, what would you prefer as an alternative? If you want I could just be a husk of sadness and woe while I curse the Divines for my shoddy luck and keep it bottled inside until it eventually explodes. I've read all the bad adventure novels, I know how it goes. Jesting makes it easier to deal with." She lowered her voice, which was already hushed because of Milos' hot scowl. "Besides, it only happens once a month. Twice on some occasions. It's not like it's a nightly thing. _That_ would be trouble."

The two old friends startled when Eduard's door opened again. Everything about his bearing presented his irritation, although Taryn was pleased to see his satchel full at his feet.

"If you two would please take talk of the Dovahkiin's monthly cycles elsewhere, you would oblige my relief."

The Imperial's face turned crimson awkwardly while Milos' entire intimidating figure buckled forward with laughter subduing his previous tension. That earned a few guarded looks from patrons within the Frozen Hearth, the only time they appeared to deliberately pay attention to the motley crew in the few days they'd been housed there.

Eduard lifted his satchel and tossed it over his shoulder, where it smacked him in the back but did no visible harm. His dagger, an ancient, curved, Dragon Priest relic gleamed from his belt, and he placed a gloved hand on it. "The torchbugs will find a home in your mouth if you refuse to close it, Dovahkiin."

As Eduard made for the door of the inn, all the response Taryn could muster was sticking out her tongue at the priest's back. And Milos pounced upon the opportunity she handed to him with sordid glee.

"There she is, the mighty Dragonborn! Saviour of Nirn, slayer of World-Eaters, sticker of tongues."

"Milos, I'm _really_ going to hurt you someday."

_/-\\_

 _ **7 First Seed, 4E 202**_

The last time their troupe had slogged through the frozen north was months ago, back when retrieval of the Elder Scroll hidden in a humid Dwemer ruin was the most important thing on their minds. But the group had long since dwindled from then, and Taryn had never laboured through the snow with Eduard before. In fact, it was that very Elder Scroll read at the summit of the Throat of the World that brought him from the Merethic Era to the present day. The only two who had truly gone through the Elder Scroll ordeal was Taryn and Milos, and both were not eager to drudge through the snow again. Snow banks half the size of frost trolls slowed their march, though Taryn was grateful for the soft snowfall as opposed to the harrowing winds yesterday. It made an already arduous journey easier to amble along.

High noon was when the three had finally left Winterhold after a few delays regarding the Stormcloak movement. The direction they were marching was the same bearing that the Stormcloaks were pursuing what surviving Imperials had retreated from the battle. As a result, their odd group would attract attention from the soldiers, so Taryn decided they take a more treacherous route near the ice crevices and jagged rocks directly under the shadow of the mountains separating Winterhold from the Pale.

Taryn was unsure whether or not a trip on the roads would have shortened their journey by a fair margin or given them pains in the head with all the checkpoints the Stormcloaks would have established to stagger the journey of Imperial spies. Despite the debilitating climb through the snow, it seemed the best option. With no papers for identification, Taryn, Eduard, and Milos would have been escorted to the prison in Windhelm almost immediately, especially because of their strange companionship. But as long as they kept to the mountains Taryn felt they would bypass the Stormcloaks chasing the Empire's soldiers and make it to the Labrynthian with only a few incidents of engagement with the local wildlife. A narrow escape or battle with a frost troll or snowy sabrecat wasn't uncommon in the hard north of the Nordic province.

By evening, the three were slowed tremendously by the sleet they toiled in. Shaky looks at the map and the sky for direction led Taryn to believe they'd barely walked a whole twenty kilometres from Winterhold. They intended to enter the Labrynthian from the north, and once Eduard was safely back in the Merethic Era, Taryn and Milos spoke about making a return to Whiterun and visiting the Greybeards soon afterward. As thanes of Whiterun, they had to be present often to keep up with current events. Their absence was hardly of any consequence, but Proventus Avenicci, steward to Jarl Balgruuf the Greater, was keen to remind them of how often they departed to pursue one of his bounties without asking about the progress of the Civil War or the stance Whiterun had yet to take. Taryn had once rebuffed him by telling him to leave politics to politicians. Avenicci pointed out to herself and Milos that they were in a position of politics with their titles, and the Imperial had laughed, admitted she forgot about the title, and said Balgruuf was doomed with her in such a position. Milos had never seen Avenicci so furious with someone before.

The sun had slipped under the horizon, dropping the temperature drastically, by the time Taryn thought they had found some form of shelter. Unfortunately, before they could alert the sentry perched on the rooftop of what looked to be a rear entrance to a nearby fort, Milos spotted a bird perched on a lycanthrope's skull on a stake, picking away what was left of the flesh, and they averted their course. The wide berth they gave the fort that finally loomed above them left a few sentries suspicious, and Taryn noticed two scouts following them until they felt assured Milos, Taryn, and Eduard were not spies or scouting their position. The scouts retreated back to their fort without incident.

There was only one faction Taryn knew would place such an explicit display of brutality towards lycanthropes: the Silver Hand. While Heimdall Jorgenson, the new Harbinger of Companions, had led an assault on them after the death of the previous Harbinger, they were not as powerful or influential as they once were, though they flourished still in small pockets. These were the radicals who had no intention to enter the priesthood of Stendarr, and while they also hunted those who worshipped or were influenced by daedra, more often than not they would choose to torture them into madness to justify slaughtering them. The Vigilants of Stendarr would at least offer the afflicted their last rights and attempt to kill them quickly, whether they wanted to die or not. It was that kind of complicated issue that made Taryn wonder if, given the choice of death, she would fight to live.

The trio were debating to try their luck at finding an alcove near the mountain to help shield themselves from the cold while they set up their tents. The wind began to pick up, bringing with it swirling snowflakes that cut against their skin like icicles. Eventually, after only another half-hour of wandering west, they spotted a large wooden building that appeared to be an inn. Its roof was beginning to blanket with snow, but Taryn could see it was made with straw. Icicles hung low from the wooden porch and fused with the ground below. A large, thick log had an axe stuck fast into it, and smaller logs for kindling were stacked neatly in a pile beside it. There was also a tanning rack with a deer's hide strung up beside the stairs onto the porch with snowflakes burying deep into the fur.

"There's no sign," called Milos over the frosty gales.

Taryn steeled her nerves and marched up to the door. Her left hand found Dragonbane's grip for some form of assurance. As Milos and Eduard stepped onto the porch Taryn knocked loudly on the door. The flickering lights under the entryway were momentarily blocked as the sound of heavy boots began marching towards the door. Under his breath, Taryn heard Milos mutter, "I don't think this is an inn..." just as the door swung inward. A heavy-set Nord man with thick, red-blond mutton chops at the far end of middle-age towered in the doorway. Pale, belted, light blue robes covered his torso, while steel boots and gauntlets shielded his arms and legs. A prominent amulet of Stendarr was clearly visible over his robes.

The Nord examined the trio with equal parts confusion and concern. His blue eyes lingered on Eduard, as most who met him did, and then he regarded Milos with a weighty tone, "Do you seek shelter?"

The relief Taryn felt matched her newfound nervousness. No, the hall wasn't an inn. But the amulet of Stendarr gave away the hall's true purpose: it housed the Vigilants of Stendarr. Even the warrior-priests wouldn't turn away the trio, but she felt an anxiety that wouldn't be quelled until the morning, when they could leave.

Milos properly asked for shelter from the wind from the Vigilant, who introduced himself as Tolan, and the Nord stepped to the side to allow them entry. The interior was much like the Frozen Hearth, although there was no fire pit at the centre. Two rows of benches facing an alter adorned with shrines of Stendarr, books, amulets, and a wolf pelt took up most of the space within the Hall of the Vigilant to Taryn's left. Four tables and their joined benches were to her right, a modest amount of bread, dried meats, and assorted fruits set on top. The Vigilants within were praying to Stendarr before they retired to their quarters. A selection of Nords, Redguards, Bretons, and the occasional Bosmer were on their knees before Stendarr's altar. None so much as spared them a glance as they entered.

"Please keep your voices down for now," whispered Tolan as he shut the door calmly behind them. "I'll speak with Keeper Carcette to see where we can place you."

"Thank-you, sir," the Argonian replied when Taryn's words failed her (and Eduard was never expected to respond, anyhow, else some brash or curt words would fire from his mouth). Milos jostled Taryn and focused on her with a pointed stare. Softly, he whispered to her, "Only until sunrise," and then gave her a sly grin of encouragement.

She nodded with heartened response, and returned the friendly bump. In mere moments, Tolan had returned from a private room to the right of the altar with a woman in tow, dressed similarly to him; light blue robes with belts carrying pouches, steel gauntlets and boots, but the presence of a warhammer strapped to her back immediately set Taryn on edge. She was a Breton woman, with short blonde hair, brown eyes that immediately began investigating us the moment she turned the corner, and a thick, protruding jaw set with a grim determination Taryn recognized from Delphine, one of the ancient Blades.

Carcette didn't walk gracefully, but her strides were tired and, frankly, so were her eyes. Taryn couldn't help but notice the abundance of small red veins in her eyes and the dark circles that hung beneath. But any mortal or daedra could see Keeper Carcette was making an impression. She simply could have instructed Tolan what to do, but her appearance forced Taryn to question whether she'd placed Milos and Eduard in some sort of danger, as though the Vigilants could tell what she was from a mere glance. Taryn swallowed the rising terror in her throat and took deep, guileful breaths. She'd been human most of her life. Surely it wasn't _that_ difficult to keep up the facade?

Tolan and Carcette deferred to Milos, the one who'd been kind enough to provide replies to Tolan in the first place. The Argonian extended a clawed, scaly hand to Keeper Carcette and inclined his head slightly as Carcette grasped his offering. "My name is Hides-His-Heart. These are my companions, Taryn Greystone and Eduard. We seek shelter for the night."

There was some sort of collective agreement that passed through the Vigilants praying at the altar of Stendarr; they rose and began bidding their comrades a good night just as Keeper Carcette replied, "I am Carcette, Keeper of the Vigilants of Stendarr, upholder of Stendarr's justice and His mercy. I would ask before I give you shelter: why do you travel during this storm? And on such a treacherous path?"

"Unfortunately, our travelling papers were stolen during a recent visit to Winterhold." Something Milos and Taryn had learned when they lived in Anvil was if one must lie, keep as close to the truth as possible. One would be less likely to falter with one's words. "Using the main road to Windhelm in wartime would only make myself and my friends more suspicious than we already look, and we've really no inclination to sleep in a dungeon." With a cheerful Argonian grin, Milos added, "Though if you've only dungeons to spare, we won't dispute it."

Carcette glanced over to Tolan and the emptying hall as she released Milos' hand. Thankfully, whatever trepidations the Keeper had seemed to abate thanks to Milos' sly tongue. "We only have to storage room to offer you three," Carcette admitted, and immediately Tolan disappeared behind the altar, descending steps Taryn hadn't noticed before. "Tolan will clear it and ensure it's an adequate space. We live simply here, so I apologize if the room seems cold."

"We've had worse. Thank-you, Keeper Carcette."

The Vigilant motioned for them to follow her behind the altar, and they did quietly, though Taryn noticed how Eduard shook his head the moment they passed the shrine to Stendarr. Then again she hadn't expected anything less. As a Dragon Priest, his only allegiance was to the Dragons, not the Divines, despite Alduin's claim to being the spawn of Akatosh. Thankfully Eduard had nothing to say about the shrine. He once made an abrasive comment about Arkay and was nearly lynched by some angry Nords that heard him. A quick escape and a near thrashing from Milos ensured that the boundaries of the Pantheon of Divines and Eduard's ancient religion remained separate. The "agreement" also entailed Taryn could no longer taunt in the Dragon Language, whether it be a Dragon or an irritable Dragon Priest.

At the bottom of two flights of steps was what appeared to be a storage room. Straw was scattered about the stone floor, caught beneath burlap sacks of grains and buckets of fruit and vegetables, and also three animal furs that were being placed on the ground by Tolan. A simply carved wooden chair was settled in the left corner beside the stairs with a small end table established beside it. A bookshelf at the far wall, directly across from the stairs, was housing more potions than its namesake, though it was not completely vacant of them. A map of Skyrim was fastened to the left wall above an empty shelf. The right wall suspended weapon racks bare of any steel. The room was chilled, though it was not unexpected, and Taryn was glad again for the furs around her shoulders.

"This is what we can offer you," said Keeper Carcette as she gestured about the room.

Milos grinned and inclined his lizard head. He'd had to bow his head earlier to slip under the doorframe and into the storage room. "Much appreciated. Thank-you."

"Stendarr's Mercy be upon you." As soon as Tolan had been kind enough to light the candle on the end table, the two Vigilants exited the room and shut the door securely behind them. The three waited for the Vigilants' footsteps to recede up the steps before there were any conversations to unpack their bedrolls and make a meal of dried venison and water.

Milos, who had earlier volunteered to carry most of their things because of his bulk, had fallen asleep almost immediately beside the chest on the wall to the right after the trio had nibbled on their rations. His light snores was the only sound permeating the room. Eduard was leaning comfortably against a bale of hay on the far wall next to a slanting training dummy. As per usual, Taryn couldn't tell whether he was awake or asleep. His gloved hand was never far from his ancient ceremonial dagger, though he appeared to be candid about it. Taryn, herself, could find no solace in sleep. She was, admittedly, still far too anxious to rest blissfully beneath the base of the Vigilants of Stendarr. Instead she thought to read and sat in the chair in the corner, but the only book that didn't include magical incantations and how to properly cook a clam was one that made her stomach churn: _The Physicalities of Werewolves_.

Despite that, Taryn picked it up. The title was splattered in bold letters on its cover and spine. From what she could garner, the book had been read many times because of how wrinkled the spine was. The cover had not yet been worn through, but many pages were dog-eared. Her curiosity drove her to read a few entries. She couldn't call the author a sick, twisted man, despite how the two entries about lycans made her cringe. Honestly, if she'd read the books a few months prior to her jaunt into Skyrim, Taryn probably would have found it fascinating. One was about a Breton man who could change at will, and was driven to do so as fast as he could until he simply expired. The second was detailing a Nord woman who was dissected alive. Taryn could not have slammed the book closed faster, though she flinched when the sound nearly woke Milos. The Argonian simply skipped in his snoring, but resumed almost immediately afterward.

Taryn sighed quietly and blew the flame of the candle out. In the darkness she carefully waded towards where she believed her bedroll was. She misjudged, found the bookcase, and cursed quietly. Then, as she slipped away from the wall, a small ball of light formed beside her bedroll. Taryn moved towards it, but just as she came within an arm's reach it disappeared. It was unmistakably a candlelight spell.

"Thank-you," whispered Taryn as she climbed into her bedroll.

She thought she would not receive a reply, but Eduard mumbled back, "You're welcome." Just as she began to think of how out of character it was for the Dragon Priest, he added, "I thought to watch you struggle for a while more, but I became worried you would dislodge the bookcase and kill me."

 _Ah, there he is,_ Taryn mused inwardly.

He continued, "What were you reading?"

Lengthy conversations were not something Eduard would typically carry with Taryn, but the few they did have eventually led to some sort of agreement about the state of the Civil War, denouncements of the ruling body of the Elder Council, or simple history lessons, things to come that Eduard had not, and probably wouldn't, experience in his lifetime. As much as Taryn didn't know what kind of a man he was, she could at least discern that he was no elf and certainly no dwemer. He was a man who would die of old age one day just like herself and Milos (ideally).

"A book about some of Hircine's creatures," replied Taryn as she adjusted her body to face him. "I realized too late that it wasn't ideal for late reading."

She could almost picture Eduard considering her words. "The Nord Heimdall suggested I ought to read some book about an Argonian maid. What was her name? Lifts-Her-Tail or something equally provocative?"

"That's about right." Taryn grinned at him through the darkness. "If you're going to read any literature from this day and age, I think you'd feel more at home with _The Warp in the West_. Interesting read."

"I've heard of it."

Taryn thought he'd nearly settled in comfortably, so she chanced at continuing the conversation. "How are those tomes Urag set you up to?"

"He seems to enjoy the progress far more than I," answered the Dragon Priest. "I uncovered a common recipe from my time and he nearly choked on his water. Though he managed to save himself and read the tome with true eyes for the first time."

"You uncovered an ancient cookbook?"

"The Orc believed it to be a book of alchemical ingredients. I suppose he wasn't far off."

"I suppose not."

Another period of silence hung between them, and Taryn settled in her bedroll on her back rather than face him. It seemed they both were finally ready to sleep. Taryn closed her eyes and hoped she would fall into slumber promptly, though until she finally did, she could she the words from her most recent book on the back of her eyelids, haunting her like a ghoul.

 _All you need to do is act natural,_ she told herself. _Think like you always have. As long as you don't show whatever warning signs there are, you'll be okay. And in the morning we'll leave this place behind. Act natural._

While the encouragement didn't dispel the thoughts of the book, Taryn finally slipped into her dreams. There would be no more thought of Hircine's creatures within the Hall of Vigilants that night.


	4. Rise of the Dawn

Chapter Three:

Rise of the Dawn

 _ **8 First Seed, 4E 202**_

His name was Molva Scinia, and he was once an Imperial. Once, many years ago, yes. Back when the Empire was crowning its new—and most recent—emperor of the Mede Dynasty, at the cusp of war with the Aldmeri Dominion. He was a nobody yearning to be a somebody, to be recognized and admired, but he'd had no real opportunity to be acknowledged by his peers. There was always the option to join the Imperial Legion, but for what? To die, slain by elves? No, that was foolish. To be appointed to the Elder Council would sate his thirst, but he would be at the dusk of his life before he could even be considered for a position and only after substantial work throughout his decades.

So Molva thought it would be best to sojourn to Skyrim, where opportunities in Solitude would practically be thrown at his feet, or so he thought. But he'd misjudged the amount of coin needed for the trip and soon found himself angrily walking the muddy road from Karthwasten to Dragon Bridge, rain pelting his lavish clothing and soaking him straight to the bone.

The Eight abandoned him. Forsworn didn't come that far north, yet the Reachmen set upon him like dogs to a bone. Molva thought it to be his end before he'd ever truly lived, that no one would know just how special he was. He wouldn't be appreciated, or valued...

Yet there he was, watching the Hall of the Vigilant in the midst of a snowstorm that could freeze the nose off any hardy Nord. Molva stood unaffected in it. Long gone were the days he'd been desperate for recognition. Now he had a family that adored him and his talents. _They_ saved him from the Forsworn; not the Eight, not the legionnaires. He owed the Vampires and Lord Harkon. And he served them well, first reluctantly, now with renewed purpose. The promise of more power granted by Lord Harkon himself meant he would be revered among his kind. Of course, Harkon had immediately put Molva's talents to use the moment he'd been turned, and as it happened, Molva was a wonderful extractor of information from unwilling participants, and he savoured his time at Harkon's castle.

A dark figure cloaked in shadow appeared beside him on his left side. Molva closed his eyes and reached out with his other senses. Sounds within the hall were waning, indicating the warrior-monks were retiring for the night. When Molva opened his eyes, he observed the few windows visible, and watched as the candlelight was snuffed out entirely.

"The last of the Vigilants patrolling the hold have been killed, Molva," said the figure standing at his side. "The bodies have been disposed of."

"And everyone knows the plan, Alvolvi?"

The dunmer nodded solemnly, his crimson eyes fixated eagerly on the wooden hall pelted by snow. Through his nostrils, Alvolvi inhaled and tried to discern how many Vigilants were within. Almost absently, as though it was an afterthought, Alvolvi replied, "They understand and await orders, Molva."

"Good." Molva stretched his arms above his head, his sinewy fingers entwined around each other and grasping. "What about reports of those travellers from earlier?"

"The ones that the Silver Hand were watching?" Alvolvi grinned, flashing sharp canines. "They're inside. The Vigilants give them shelter."

Molva nodded solemnly. "Then I want you to let the others know that we still kill the Vigilants, but they are welcome to capture the others for feeding later. Lord Harkon would enjoy such gifts. But remind them to be aware of the large one."

"The Argonian, yes. I saw that blade." Alvolvi sneered. "Damn lizards used to be the sneaky type. He looked as though he could use that blade on his back with ease."

"But the others don't look too difficult to deal with. A woman and some nobleman..."

"Molva, the woman had some scar on her face and the nobleman was wearing robes from an ancient cult. My assumption is that man should have some physical prowess to wear the robes of such an ancient, hated enemy of Nords in broad daylight. And that woman must have some trick up her sleeve to face a blade down."

"Not everyone with scars is so bold, Alvolvi." His tone was curt and sharp, and Molva was satisfied when his retort silenced Alvolvi so swiftly. "But you have a point. The Vigilants will not be our only enemies tonight, and we should treat these travellers accordingly. I don't wish for overconfidence to be our downfall. Lord Harkon would never forgive us for such an amateurish mistake."

Alvolvi inclined his head. "As you say, Molva."

The Dunmer disappeared once more into darkness. Molva closed his eyes to focus his senses. In no time at all, Harkon's greatest gift would be upon him. He would not be looked down upon by those two newcomers to the clan who dared to wriggle ahead of him, claiming for themselves what was rightfully his. Lord Harkon would cherish Molva like the asset he was, and the rest would be crushed beneath his heel.

_/-\\_

 _ **8 First Seed, 4E 202**_

A sudden, shrill scream startled Taryn awake. Before the shriek had ended, Taryn was upright in her bedroll and blearily grasping for her sword. Her hands snaked across dirt, fur, and straw, but the darkness of the storage room was weighing on her. Her limbs found naught but difficulty with movement, and her lungs burned. For a brief, startling second, Taryn feared she was about to change, then her hands clasped Dragonbane and her fears melted. The reassurance of a sword chased panic out of her mind like an unwanted visitor. Her joints were stiff because of the cold. Her lungs inhaled smoke. Dragonbane couldn't protect from smoke, but it could against whatever had caused that wail in the night.

Above, plated boots hurried across the floor. If she focused, Taryn could discern many other pairs of feet, although they were much quieter than the boots of the Vigilants of Stendarr. Since that howl, more noises had joined in chorus. Taryn most easily recognized the sound of battle. The Imperial struggled to fasten her armour in the darkness until a candlelight spell illuminated the room. Eduard lifted himself to his feet and slid his dagger from its sheath. Milos was buckling his armour with sword in hand.

The sound of flesh hitting the floors above made Taryn cringe, but thanks to Eduard's spell she was able to finish donning her armour and was ready to charge out the door. She hesitated when she heard people at the top of the stairs to the storage room descending quickly. Eduard banished his spell just as Taryn motioned for him and Milos to get behind the door. Inwards it swung, and two pale Nords charged inside, howling a battle-cry. Their open mouths displayed long and sharp canine teeth, and their eyes were coloured crimson. Whatever surprise Taryn had initially was quickly overcome by the need to survive, and in a fast arc she whipped Dragonbane from its sheath and cleaved the closest Vampire to her. He screamed as his chest erupted with blood from his newfound wound and grasped to staunch it with his hands. As he toppled forward, the second Vampire leapt over his dying companion towards the Imperial. Milos stepped out from behind the door thrusting his blade before the Vampire could swing his weapon, impaling him through both his lungs at an angle.

Milos placed a foot onto the Vampire and slid him slowly from his greatsword. A sucking sound permeated the room until he had collapsed to the ground as well, staining the stone red with undead blood. Milos peeked upstairs briefly while Eduard ran his dagger across the throat of the Vampire Taryn had wounded, and Taryn hastily tied their bedrolls to their backpacks.

The lengthy groan of the Hall of the Vigilant paused the trio briefly. The smoke around them was thickening. "We need to get out of here before this place collapses on top of us!" Milos hefted his pack over his shoulders when Taryn shoved it toward him. "I'll take point, and you two—!"

"Your weapon is hardly appropriate for this narrow space. All you're able to do is stab forward if anyone meets us on the steps." Eduard fastened his supplies and nodded to Milos. "I will go first. My dagger and my magic will be more than enough for these monsters."

Milos was made to cover the rear should the Vampires not truly be dead. Taryn was sandwiched between him and Eduard, but since it was clearly no time to be bothered by it, Taryn relented and kept Dragonbane at the ready. At the top of the flight of stairs, a guttural roar was silenced by Eduard's blood-smeared dagger. Bodies on the floor were scattered around, some still in the midst of dying, others twisted imitations of dogs, but most appeared to be the Vigilants' people. Steel against steel, the Vigilants of Stendarr desperately held their own against the sudden attack by the cursed undead. The Vampires howled and shrieked with unearthly power. Taryn could tell immediately that the battle was a losing one.

A Vampire on the ground groped with his hand, and then clutched Taryn's ankle in a vice-like grip. Thankfully Milos jumped and landed his full weight onto its head, crushing it and spattering blood and gore several metres around. But the adrenaline in Taryn's veins dulled any disgust she had towards the scene.

The few remaining Vigilants were cut down, blood spilling onto the floor, the walls—Taryn thought she could see some spattering on the insulation on the roof, wherever the flames weren't consuming the building. As the last in their hall fell, five Vampires remained, running their tongues over their fangs, licking the blood on their fingers or blades... Taryn's shoulders tensed as she watched them. Beads of sweat rolled down from her neck to her back. The heat was intense...

Divines! Taryn wondered how she could have let panic overcome her. The Vampires might have set the hall ablaze, but it was to induce the fear she felt. The undead _loathed_ fire! She could hear Eduard mumbling a spell under his mask rapidly, and Milos levelled his greatsword at the advancing undead.

"Move!" shouted Taryn as she elbowed the Argonian out of her path. Milos could barely get a word out of him before Taryn could feel the strength in her diaphragm swell, and then her Voice rang out, _**"Yol Tor Shul!"**_

Flame was launched ahead, pummelling into three of the Vampires like a wave. They were swallowed up and set ablaze instantaneously, screaming as they tried to put out their ignited clothing and skin. The scent of burnt flesh spread throughout the hall and beyond. Taryn had no time to sit and watch them burn; the two remaining Vampires shrieked with rage and engaged with fervor. Her body cinched briefly until she unconsciously raised Dragonbane to deflect a Vampire's axe from her shoulder. Eduard locked daggers with the other while shooting a chain of fire from his palms that was defended by a stalwart ward. Taryn saw Milos rush forward to the door and slam the whole of his weight onto it. When the door didn't budge, Milos found small objects to toss through the windows. The smoke became lighter as plumes escaped from the Hall of the Vigilant.

Milos continued to work on an escape while Taryn and Eduard kept the Vampires distracted. It wasn't difficult, considering the Vampires were blind with rage and bloodlust. That also made them a hair more dangerous. Taryn continued to parry and deflect and dodge with every intention to strike with a minor fireball or slash the undead snarling at her, but his fury kept her on the defensive, and that's where she would have stayed, had she not been given a few pointers from her friends.

Friends such as Aldren Ebor, a dunmer assassin (and a Vampire himself), whose tips might have died with Taryn had she not noticed the apparent weakness in her opponents shoulder. She could almost hear Aldren shouting at her to exploit it. As soon as the Vampire slashed at her again, his arm covering his breast, Taryn ducked, yanked her ebony dagger from her boot and thrust it upward as his weapon met with air again. Taryn drove her blade deep into his armpit, penetrating through his shoulder, then plunged Dragonbane into the Vampire's guts. He was immediately immobile. Black, arterial blood bubbled up from his mouth. In no time at all Taryn's face was splattered with the stuff. She shoved the Vampire off her weapons and onto a heap of bodies strewn on the floor.

Eduard was holding his own against his assailant, but Taryn saw a sluggishness in both their movements. Their use of magicka had drained them both of their strength, now it was a battle of wills and endurance. With ease, Taryn swapped Dragonbane for her left hand and her ebony dagger for her right, and then tossed the weapon hard into the exposed back of the Vampire. It found its mark and the Vampire followed with a shout, giving Eduard that split-second of time he needed to gather his magicka and blast the Vampire backwards into a support beam that snapped in two on contact. Part of the building moaned and leaned towards Keeper Carcette's room. Taryn vaulted beneath the listing roof, yanked her dagger out of the Vampire and retreated just as the beams crashed into the building. It crumbled into itself, thankfully opposite where Milos was smashing his shoulder into the door.

Taryn took one of Eduard's arm and dragged him over to Milos. She was glad the Dragon Priest didn't trip over the corpses on the ground, but thankfully his exhaustion was wearing off. Milos was tugging on the door by the time Taryn and Eduard got to him.

"Damn door's been jammed somehow!" Milos threw the whole of his weight once more onto the wood, but it was no use. It barely moved, much less gave way. "We're going to have to find another way out."

"Windows are too small for anyone but me to crawl out of," Taryn observed, and then she took some steps back and faced the wall to their left. "Well, it looks like I need to make a hole large enough for you, Milos."

"I resent that."

 _ **"Fus Ro Dah!"**_

The wall shattered outward, splintering in a hundred directions and tossing corpses outside along with it. The trio emerged with the smog and into the biting snow. Crisp, chilly air charged them as wind gusted into their faces. Eduard gasped and coughed as though his lungs were rising like gorge in his throat. Milos inhaled and exhaled deeply, his eyes tightly shut as he focused on his intake of fresh oxygen. As she crawled away from the burning wreck, Taryn heard weapons slide from sheathes and glanced upward. Her eyes scrunched closely and blurred her vision of the people approaching, but she was convinced they were more Vampires.

Her body was stiff, and her diaphragm was sore from use of her Thu'um. The smoke was dizzying. She realized that she may have thought clearly in the thick of the fumes thanks to her adrenaline, but by the time she was laying in the snowbank, she was drained of all her energy. She willed herself to stand, to fight off the last of those Vampires. Her last Thu'um had drained what she had left.

"Alvolvi, kill that Argonian before he gets back up. Lisette, the other."

A female voice answered, "Understood, Molva," and one of the three Vampires stepped around Taryn.

"And you, Molva?" asked a male. From his accent, Taryn assumed he was Dunmer.

"I thought Lokil might enjoy some breakfast. We're nearby Dimhollow Crypt, after all. The search should nearly be complete."

Alvolvi stepped on the other side of Taryn just as the one called Molva slid effortlessly through the snow and up to her. He stepped heavily on her left hand, yanking Dragonbane from her grasp, and then pried her ebony dagger from her frosty fingers. In one swift motion he hauled her exhausted body up by the backside of her armour's collar.

"Nothing personal. It's just to help my position. Especially since now you've revealed yourself, little Dragonborn."

Molva's fist slammed heavily into Taryn's skull. Blobs of blackness slowly overtook her vision. The last thing she heard was the sound of steel piercing flesh, and Milos' shout of pain.

_/-\\_

 _ **9 First Seed, 4E 202**_

It was a clear day with a cool breeze wafting through the caverns of Fort Dawnguard. The sun had a few hours yet to reach its zenith, but already the fortress was bustling with purpose and direction. The craggy stones were being repaired, cobwebs torn from the high corners of the rooms within, fires stoked and stories traded. Within the caverns in question, several Dawnguard recruits attacked straw dummies that featured crudely-drawn Vampire fangs on command by their superior, a sturdy-looking Nord dressed in the telling scaled armour of the Dawnguard. He paced behind the trainees, his blue eyes measuring them and assessing them endlessly. On his back, his ebony greatsword tapped against his back with every step he took. As he moved a lock of thick brown hair from his eyes, he scrutinized one of his recruits more closely.

"Raise that arm, Agmaer!" he hollered, his voice booming against the stones. "Or do you hope the Vampires will lie down out of pity?!"

"Aye, sir!" shouted the younger Nord in response.

The Nord watched the Bosmeri woman as Agmaer followed his instructions. "Beleval, do you want to leave your neck open?! Raise that shield! You're no use to me without a head!"

"Understood!" The womer raised her shield higher as the Nord moved to the last of them.

He observed the Nord lass until he saw an opening on her stance. She'd long been an overachiever in the group. He hated those types. "Kyne would be ashamed to see a daughter of Skyrim take her eyes off the enemy! Your focus is the opponent in front of you, Tilde!"

He saw the reprimand strike a cord and hid a grin as Tilde gritted her teeth angrily, and furiously focus the whole of her attentions onto the dummy as she called back, "Sir!"

"Strict as always, I see." The Nord man spotted a Breton leaning against one of the rectangular, arched pillars that repeated throughout the fort, and didn't hide his grin at the man's appearance. A Dawnguard like himself, and one he respected. "Tymvir, maybe if you yelled a little less you might find out you're Dragonborn, and the Greybeards would summon you."

"Ah, Celann, the Greybeards have already summoned someone." The Nord man reached out to the Breton and grabbed his arm. "Lucky bastard, he must be."

"Yes, training with monks for the rest of his days after slaying Alduin the World-Eater... I've heard so many tales of him I don't know which to believe."

"My favourite is the one where he drank an entire keg of Sovngarde's mead in one gulp, and then did battle with Hakon One-Eye to prove his birthright."

Celann released Tymvir's arm and responded, "Mine is the battle itself, how the Dragonborn felled Alduin with a single blow from his axe, and even Shor himself bowed down to his greatness." The Breton man smiled, which accentuated his wrinkles. He was not an old man, but silver had slipped into his chocolate hair and beard. Despite it, Celann had a youthful spark remain in his ashen eyes. "I didn't come to talk about the Dragonborn, or my most recent hunt. Isran wants to see us."

"Now?" asked Tymvir as his gaze flickered back to the trainees.

"Mhm. Doesn't appear to be a friendly catch-up either."

"With Isran, it never is." Tymvir turned to his trainees and raised his voice, "Recruits! Weapons away!"

"Aye, sir!"

He only needed to think for a moment before he added, "Grab some early breakfast. If I'm not back afterward, have some free time, but stay close."

The most notable relief showed on Agmaer's face. As the most recent trainee, Tymvir pushed him the hardest to catch up with the others. Thankfully he was showing progress, but progress came at a cost, and Agmaer was often tired by the end of each training session.

"And polish your armour, you three!"

If they could have groaned, they would have, but the last time they had Tymvir made them do one-hundred sit-ups before and after every meal for a week. So they quietly dispersed to retrieve food and cleaning supplies.

Tymvir only left the caverns once he'd picked up his helmet, gifted to him once he reached the rank of Master Vampire Slayer under Isran's tutelage. The reflective surface cast the sunlight from above into his eyes, so instead of staring into the piece of armour, he tucked it under his left arm and made for Isran's room. He passed through the lengthy hallways and the vaulted main lobby towards the narrow, spiralling staircase up to the second floor. Banners of the Dawnguard were still in the process of being hung from the banisters above, a new and very stark contrast to the age of the fortress itself. But Tymvir saw potential, just as Isran did. The throng of recruits that arrived from Riften and beyond helped reinforce the grand ideals of the Dawnguard Tynmvir had.

Isran's chambers weren't far from the stairs. It had been a storage room, but refurnished into a master bedroom once it became clear that the dining area was best suited downstairs. Tymvir knocked on the bulky wooden door and waited patiently for it to be answered. Celann, unusually pale, was the one who opened the door for the Nord to step in. As he cast his eyes about the room, decorated with Dawnguard memorabilia, Tymvir recognized a Master Vampire Slayer like himself, Mogrul the Orc, as well as the head of the Dawnguard Isran, and...?

"Tolan?" exclaimed Tymvir, as though he couldn't believe his own eyes. "Tolan, what are you doing here?!"

Tymvir had agreed with every word of Isran's back when they (as well as Celann) were Vigilants of Stendarr. All three together had seen the threat of Vampires rise little by little every passing year. At that time, Tolan was Tymvir's teacher. They had parted amicably when the Dawnguard was finally formed, but they'd never kept in contact for fear of a clash of viewpoints. Tymvir was initially glad to see his old teacher in Fort Dawnguard, but then he realized the man's sorry state. Soot and blood speckled his robes, most prominent on his hands.

"He's here to tell us news of the Vigilants of Stendarr." Isran's deep Redguard voice called immediate attention to himself. As always, his voice was stern like his grey eyes. He had more wrinkles than Celann, but they were hidden under a long and bushy beard. Only the creases in his forehead were telling of his age, thanks to the lack of hair on his head. "Or their fate, rather."

The colour drained from Tymvir's face, and suddenly he understood why Celann was pale as well. Tolan's face was stained with tears. "And you came to the Dawnguard..."

"Because Vampires attacked the Hall of the Vigilant." Unceremoniously, Tolan smeared the tears from his face. "Stendarr's Mercy, those things swooped in as we slept. They killed everyone...!"

"How'd you escape?" asked Mogrul, his eyes piqued with interest.

"I ran," admitted Tolan, his eyes focusing on the floor at his feet. "I killed one or two, but there were just so many, more than we had at the hall, and those travelers below couldn't have fended them off, even armed as they were—!"

"Calm down," said Isran, and he touched the Vigilant's shoulder. "Take a breath, Tolan. Start from the beginning."

As Isran recommended, Tolan took a few deep breaths and nodded. "You're right, you're right. I'm sorry. My head's pounding. Haven't been thinking clearly since yesterday." Drawing himself up, Tolan looked directly at Tymvir. "We sent a patrol out west before nightfall. When they didn't return we sent another to check on them. Thought it might have been just a minor thing, like some prayers or curing diseases on the road for some of the refugees fleeing the war, so I didn't think much of it. We'd sent out more patrols than usual this week because of the conflict, so we were less than half our usual number back at the hall.

"We were getting ready for rest once our main prayers to Stendarr had been completed. Some travelers stopped by seeking shelter from the winds, so Keeper Carcette put them downstairs in the storage room. Then I went to bed." He gulped, took a moment, and then continued, "The Vampires attacked once we were all asleep, in the early hours after midnight yesterday morning. They set the base of the hall and the roof aflame. I cut through... through three, I think. Aye, three. Monstrous dogs burst in. Carcette was overwhelmed and yelled at us to run. I and my student were the only ones who escaped."

"Your student?" pressed Mogrul.

Tolan rubbed his forehead. "Boy's in Riften. We thought it'd be best to inform the jarls of the Vampires now that their threat is... obvious."

Tymvir felt his shoulders sag. He, Celann, and Isran had been Vigilants, and while they might have been annoyed with the circumstances in how the Vigilants couldn't see the danger, he had no real anger to feel for them overlooking one issue to try to address the rest. _We could have been one of them,_ thought Tymvir. _One of the dead..._

Isran's voice finally chased off the gloom that surrounded the men in the room. "Is it possible those travelers are thralls of Vampires?"

"I..." Tolan hesitated. "I didn't notice anything. They didn't seem like it..."

The Redguard pursed his lips as he watched Tolan. Tymvir noticed his expression and recognized it. "I know it might be hard for you, Tolan, but as soon as you're able I'd like you to take us directly to the Hall of the Vigilant and walk us through the damage."

"It might take a day or so. My leg needs new bandages, and I've got to collect the boy—."

"I'll grab him," Mogrul interjected. "He might be on edge after that attack. Give me your Amulet of Stendarr so he knows I'm a friend."

Tolan removed his amulet with the care a father would a child and gingerly placed it in the outstretched palm of the Orc. "Please be patient with him. He's curt and blunt, but he doesn't mean anything by it."

Mogrul glanced at Isran, and the Redguard gave him a quick nod. "Patient and unmoving as a mountain, Vigilant Tolan." And then the Orc jammed his gleaming helmet on his head and stepped out of the room.

"Celann, you and Tymvir will leave with some of the Dawnguard before dawn tomorrow. That should be more than enough time for our healers to take care of that leg of yours, Tolan," said Isran. "Tymvir, grab those recruits you've been training. It's about time they got a taste of what a danger these Vampires are."

"Agreed, Isran," acknowledged Tymvir. He couldn't just mourn the passing of Stendarr's faithful. He needed action. He needed to be like Isran: extend Stendarr's Mercy to the surviving Vigilants, and execute Stendarr's Justice upon the undead that desecrated His home. And to do that, he needed to put steel his heart, and, in a more literal way, the Vampires'. "I'll run through the last of their exercises today and get them prepared for the hunt."

"I'll send more Dawnguard out later with Priests of Arkay to give them a decent burial." Isran stepped across the room and laid a hand on Tolan's exhausted shoulder. "My friend, we'll investigate the area and bring the Vampires to their knees. They'll regret ever thinking about harming the Vigil."

Tolan nodded. "Thank-you, Isran. I was afraid you wouldn't help after your argument with Keeper Carcette."

"Carcette didn't see the danger. That's all. I have nothing crass to say about her, or the Vigilants." Isran withdrew his hand. "This time tomorrow we'll also discover if those travelers you allowed within are thralls, and if they can strike again."

"How would you know that?"

"If Tymvir and Celann find their bodies, they were in the wrong place at the wrong time. But if they discover no bodies or three piles of ash, we'll know how the Vampires operate. While you're here Tolan, you ought to give Celann the descriptions of these travelers. The faster we can identify those working for the Vampires, the more efficiently we can destroy them once and for all."


	5. The Woman out of Time

Chapter Four:

The Woman out of Time

 _ **9 First Seed, 4E 202**_

 _Plink. Plink. Plink._

 _Damn that sound,_ thought Taryn, cringing at the pain in her sinuses. _At least kill me and stop me from embracing the insanity this place provokes._

It had been a whole twenty-four hours and more since the attack on the Hall of the Vigilant. During that time, Taryn had slipped in and out of consciousness as the Vampire called Molva dragged her through powdered snow and freezing mud, hands and feet bound and a gag tied uncomfortably around her mouth. Every time she bit it (which was whenever she wanted to test it to see if it had loosened or wanted to adjust it for some semblance of comfort) she was reminded of the taste of soot and sweat. She could barely stand that by itself, so she tried not to put much thought in where it had come from.

The dragging had become rougher when Molva hauled her up roughly carved steps of stone. Whether it was accidentally or intentionally (though Taryn was inclined to believe it was the latter), Taryn's head struck a rock and she was knocked out cold a second time. When next she woke, she realized she was in a cave doused in inky blackness. The Imperial could barely see her hand five inches in front of her face. Granted, she was still tied up, but she felt it applied. She'd wriggled a bit to try and escape her bonds, but it was met with futility once more. And so, Taryn resolved to make a plan. _But_...

 _Plink. Plink. Plink._

Droplets of water. Constant, unending. Taryn was tempted to find the source of the noise, however she was constrained by the knowledge of her predicament. Her hands and feet were bound with rope, and while she could manage to stand (albeit with a bit of difficulty), it was a whole other matter hopping around like a rabbit in hunting season. There could be obstacles inside her small chamber in what Taryn assumed was a larger cave network, and since there was no light, natural or artificial, it was more than likely she'd eat as much dirt as soot and sweat from the gag in her mouth.

Besides, she had a plan. No use in alerting the Vampires to how awake and full of energy she really was. The few times they'd come around to check on her she'd remained prone on the floor, but she noticed that each sentry carried a flickering flame with him. A torch, no doubt. _That means they're lesser Vampires,_ surmised the Imperial. _Can't see in the dark as well as aged Vampires can._ But all Taryn needed was to see them. And if they couldn't see in the darkness, holding a torch and standing in the light was not a very good defensive tactic. _They've come around every three hours or so. I don't think this cave should be too large, unless it's some sort of ancient Dragon Priest Barrow. Even so, it's a different sentry every time. Different patterns of walking, breathing, distribution of weight..._

 _Plink. Plink. Plink._

 _Oh, damn that sound to Oblivion!_

All she had to do was play possum and keep her breathing even. Vampires were more sensitive in their natural five senses. Taryn's friend Aldren Ebor had elaborated once about it, and she applied it as often as she could. Lesser Vampires were still new to their lives. Could take five to ten years for them to finally settle into their newfound powers, and their bloodlust was greatly increased, part of the reason why aged Vampires were few and far in between. Regardless, if Taryn continued to appear as though she was unconscious, eventually one of the Vampires would check up on her and open the door. Divines, maybe even the one called Lokil might be foolish enough to come in, and if he was their leader as Taryn thought he was, killing him might deter the rest from fighting and have them flee.

But how to kill them? Magicka was not Taryn's strong suit. It drained her more quickly using commonplace spells that Arch-Mage Javin Kelco could use without so much as a yawn. Sure, she could toss a fireball here or there when she was in a pinch, or apply some minor healing spell to staunch her bleeding, but without any weapons Taryn felt about as useless as tits on a boar. Still, she had managed to hatch a plan. All that remained was the Vampires coming in to poke her and see if she was still alive.

With what small reserves of magicka Taryn had, she had slowly been burning through the ropes on her hands. Little by little, just enough to loosen them for her to pry apart and not completely drain her energy, but also minimal enough so there wouldn't be any smell of burning. At least not to her, and she had (mostly) human senses. So, freeing herself wasn't the issue. Killing the Vampires that had captured her in the first place would have to be improvised. After all, what were the chances that a sentry would enter the section of cave Taryn was in unarmed? Swiping a weapon from their belts would be easy enough, provided she could find a way to distract them long enough to snatch it.

 _Plink. Plink. Plink._

 _I'm going to go insane._

Thankfully, she didn't have to wait much longer, so her sanity was spared. The door groaned as a Vampire pushed it inward, torch in hand, dagger on his belt. A loose gambeson, trousers, and knee-high boots were all he wore. Nord, by the look of him. Taryn hoped she looked adequately asleep with her hands behind her back. The Vampire trudged up to her and nudged his boot against her stomach. The torchlight flickered behind Taryn's eyelids. Impatiently, the Vampire tapped her a bit more forcefully, and Taryn allowed that to incite a moan. Her slow, sluggish movements seemed to be convincing the Vampire as she moved to her knees.

"Wake up already," hissed the Vampire. "Lokil likes his meals up and—."

Taryn's hands whipped around and clamped onto the hilt of his dagger. His quick, undead reflexes allowed him to grab Taryn's wrists, but his mind was slower, and after a quick and provocative grin Taryn smashed her forehead against his nose. It crunched under the blow, and blood gushed from his nostrils. One of his hands automatically released her to stifle the blood, leaving only his other hand, the one holding the torch, latched onto Taryn's arms. With relative ease Taryn slipped one of her wrists out of his grasp, yanked the dagger from his belt, and then slashed the weapon across his exposed thigh. More blood in a much larger quantity spouted from his wound. Desperately, the Vampire reached out as Taryn stooped and sliced through the rope binding her legs, but his leg gave and he crashed against the dirt and stones on the ground with a jarring yelp. Before he could so much as attempt to stand again, Taryn stepped over him and drew the blade across his throat, ending his existence.

"They'll smell this in a bit," observed the Imperial while she wiped the bloodstains from her hands and new dagger against the Vampire's gambeson. "So, let's find an escape nice and quick." _And hopefully find Milos and Eduard,_ added Taryn hopefully, although there was a pit in her stomach that kept forcing her to uncomfortably replay the sound of a dagger penetrating flesh, and Milos' shouts immediately afterward. "Well, I'll bet these Vampires have something they want me for. That one found out I was Dragonborn, but it seems like this Lokil fellow still wants to drink my blood." Under her breath, she added, "Being Dragonborn's more trouble than it's worth..."

 _Just find a way out._

 _Plink. Plink. Plink._

She took a step toward the door, then spun on her heel, ripped a piece of fabric from the fallen Vampire, found the source of the dripping and stuffed the shred into a tiny crack in the rocks. For a few seconds Taryn revelled in the silence, and then she made for the door and closed it firmly behind her.

Taryn took a few precious seconds trying to figure out which direction she should be heading. It all looked the same to her: cave and rocks, rocks and more cave. So she tried to see if she could find out where the wind was coming from, but it had long died down since the last time she was outside, and she could barely feel a soft breeze, let alone a gust strong enough to endure her scrutiny. _Looks like happenstance isn't going to help me this time,_ she mused. _Pick a direction and go, but how?_

She grinned and pulled out a septim from a pouch on her belt, the first she and Milos had earned together back in Anvil doing odd jobs. It was weathered and old, and where once a septim's face and the White-Gold Tower were featured on either side, they were now rubbed beyond recognition. _All right, Septim for right, tower for left._ A quick flick with her thumb and the coin spun high in the air with a high and shrill sound. She caught the coin before it hit the ground and slapped it onto her opposite forearm, then peeled back her fingers. "Sorry, Emperor Septim," she mumbled, "but it looks like your White-Gold Tower wins this round."

The Imperial shoved the coin back into her pouch and turned left. She put most of her mental focus toward keeping her footsteps light, despite the low visibility within the cave. Oftentimes she would collide with a wall of rock, swear, and then continue on, until she decided that holding her free arm out would benefit her greatly.

 _Where's Cha'qim when I need her?_ The Khajiit would practically bound through the cave despite the low visibility. One of the perks of being catkin. Besides, being the leader of the Thieves Guild meant she had to be quiet, so she would have been perfect for... _Well, what? Being captured by Vampires? I'm not sure I've ever heard of a Vampire that likes cat blood. So either she escapes the Hall of the Vigilant, or gets killed._ Taryn narrowed her eyes. _Wonderful. Perhaps I should go through how Heimdall would have just broken down the door with his head and run around slaughtering Vampires left right and centre? And probably would have been stopped by some magic..._

 _Ugh, just shut up, Taryn. Focus._

No wonder there wasn't any wind to begin with; she'd not even been in the main run of the cave. Taryn found a narrow staircase winding upwards towards a pull chain above. If Emperor Septim had won her coin toss, no doubt she'd find more cells within the network. Pulling on the chain revealed an entrance above her, and as she stepped out she realized that the prisons were hidden in the midst of a lesser graveyard, still deep inside the rocks and no doubt part of the main convolution, but so far it appeared to be a regular Nordic barrow, and not one to house a Dragon Priest. The lack of bas reliefs depicting the worship of dragons and their priests helped to reinforce the assumption. White, oblique patterns were smeared against the walls in ancient fingerpaints.

The passageway she'd emerged from had been hidden beneath a sarcophagus that Taryn dearly hoped was empty. She'd done her share of disturbing the dead, and since her first encounter with draugr in Bleak Falls Barrow, she could hardly stomach the sight of undead trotting around on ivory bone sticking out through dried, flaking flesh. The mere thought made her uneasy. Fighting her way through them in Skuldafn was difficult enough alone. Without Milos making sure her head stayed connected to her shoulders, she felt out of her element.

Taryn stuck to the walls of the graveyard. They were slick with water, which reflected in the minimal torchlight. But so long as Taryn moved slowly and stayed out of the light she was certain no graves would be disturbed and she'd find her way out. With only a dagger in her hand and the potential of at least four angry draugr, she was not keen on her chances for survival. Rather, it was best to keep her head down and tread carefully, like a mouse.

Finally, Taryn discovered a small tunnel free of freezing water and torchlight that led her further within. Now there was only a cold wind blowing in her face and freezing the ends of her fingers. With only her armour, crisp with blood, there was really no way to keep warm. But she liked her odds of survival outside in the frigid north rather than inside where Vampires dwelt.

A lever jutted abnormally out of a rock. All her experience in adventuring helped Taryn come to the sensible conclusion that pulling it was the only way through the portcullis before her, which blocked her path. The metal of the gate was rusted, probably beyond repair, so there was a nagging feeling in the back of Taryn's mind that the gears to lift the portcullis were rusted, too. _But how long have these Vampires been here?_ wondered Taryn. _Those guards didn't stick around outside my door. I'm willing to bet this thing works fine._

And it did. She pulled the lever towards her, inciting a blatant complaint from the inner workings, but slowly it lifted and offered her passage. Taryn moved as quickly as she could beneath it. The prospect of being impaled by the portcullis didn't sit well with her.

The room she entered was a condensed crypt. A large brazier was alight next to a table spilling over with alchemical utilities and ingredients, casting the crypt in a meagre, flickering glow. Four caskets—two on either side of the room—were either open and had dead draugr cast inside, or sealed firmly. Taryn inspected the draugr from a safe distance and noticed burns from lightning striating across their parchment skin. Doubly dead, for which Taryn was appreciative. She released a reassured sigh and set off left, deeper into the caverns.

She was led into the main barrow, where Nords were buried one above the other. The carved stone arched overhead. In the darkness, Taryn could smell more acutely the decay and stale air, which hadn't been properly breathed in hundreds of years. The dead were wrapped in layers and layers of linen cloth. Those Taryn was not concerned with. If any were reanimated within those cocoons, they would fall from their insets and wriggle on the stone like a fat caterpillar long enough for Taryn to finish without even starting the battle. No, it was the dead that had been dried, their organs removed, buried with their favoured weapons and armour that concerned the Imperial. They would simply awaken, stand with an unearthly hiss, and then lunge at her like a dog to a bone. Thankfully, they didn't appear commonly, and when Taryn saw them as she continued her walk, they were dead for good as well, with the same marks as the ones she'd first come upon. _Somebody's done my job for me._

Candles were lit at the end of the tunnel, illuminating a larger procession of the burial chambers. This was the place the living kin would have most likely gathered before entombing their fallen. Taryn had no real desire to linger, and instead found the most obvious doorway she could, which was not so much a doorway as another, smaller gate, and a pull chain inserted beside it. A lantern on the ground helped to confirm that this was the direction to go, so Taryn pulled and ducked under the gate as it rose into the stonework. She was tempted to grab the lantern, but didn't much like her chances of being spotted with it hooked to her belt. So she descended into darkness again. Instead of stone, earth was above her. Roots from aboveground were poking out from the ceiling and raking across Taryn's hair. Her hands were out in front of herself as she wandered, sometimes feeling the sides, other times stumbling blindly and hoping she wouldn't trip on a jutting rock.

She followed the blaring sounds of twisting and tumbling water, and eventually emerged into a cavern where a cascade of the liquid plummeted from metre-wide holes in the ceiling. The middle of the chamber was flooded with water to Taryn's mid-thigh. Braziers on the far side of the cave were burning to lighten the chamber. Thankfully they were, or Taryn wouldn't even have noticed the Vampire checking them to see if they needed more kindling or oil. Fearing he'd seen her, Taryn ducked to the right, behind the closest chute of water, and held her breath. The shadows from the firelight made the Vampire's face look even more gaunt than it probably would have in pitch darkness.

The Vampire stopped his inspection briefly to look the way Taryn had come. She saw his nostrils flare, and immediately remembered the wet blood on her forehead from when she smashed her guard's nose in. As delicately and subtly as she could, Taryn reached out, wetted her hand with the gushing cascade, and began to rub the blood away. Yet her other hand gripped the dagger tightly. _At least it's only one,_ she thought. _I have to get rid of this blood. But first, just wait..._

She had no idea what other Vampires thought when they smelled one another's blood. She knew the blood to be warm, like her own, but Aldren had described hers as "unappetizing". Perhaps it was the same for Vampires who smelled their kin's blood? Or maybe it smelled as regular blood? But wouldn't that make Vampires cannibals for their own kind...? The Imperial couldn't be sure. The only certain thing was the Vampire had descended into the water and slogged through it, despite his robes dipping in as well. He desired to investigate. Taryn would make certain it would be the last thing he did. She crept to him, making certain she stayed within the shadows, outside of the light of the braziers. Her footfalls were muffled by the waterfalls, but his were loud as he pushed through the water. An outcropping of rock was just before her, hiding her from sight. She waited patiently for him to come closer... closer...

"Vern!"

The Vampire stopped and looked up towards the second waterfall. Taryn stole a glance upwards as well. A Vampire dressed in fineries superior to the one who was seeking her out stood beside it, his hands clasped regally behind his back as he gazed downwards with an upturned nose.

"Where are you headed?" he asked as he glared at Vern.

"Thought I smelled something, is all," replied Vern. "Thought it needed investigating."

"If you wish," agreed the Vampire. "Do not venture beyond the crypts. If I catch you near that prisoner again, I'll make you patrol the outside in sunlight. Is that clear?"

"Crystal."

The Vampire moved off, back towards the far wall that Taryn could only barely glimpse without revealing her position. Vern cursed under his breath, muttered obscenities against the Vampire he'd spoken with, and set off once more like a bloodhound on the trail of a rabbit. Unfortunately for him, his rabbit had a knife.

Taryn leapt from the shadows with the dagger brandished and tackled Vern into the water. The gush of water suppressed the splash they made, and the following one when Taryn drove the dagger into the space between Vern's clavicle. Water rushed into his lungs as he screamed. Taryn yanked the dagger out and drove it in again, that time into his back. The crunch and grind of ribs against steel was felt between the two, and eclipsed even the pain of Vern's penetrated lung. Blood seeped from his wounds, diluted by water. Any hope he had of freeing himself from the pin underwater and living afterward was long gone. Taryn needed only to hold him a while longer before his struggling ceased entirely, whether it was from blood loss, drowning, she didn't care. He was dead, and that was that.

The Imperial stepped away from the body and walked a few paces through the water before she knelt into it and submerged herself. The Vampiric blood was flowing a different direction. The water was freezing, but the fire in her blood from her most recent encounter kept it numb. Once all the fresh blood was washed away, Taryn stood and waited by the heat of one of the braziers as she dripped away. Her eyes were focused keenly on where the other Vampire had disappeared to. He did not reappear, at least while Taryn's eyes were trained above. Finally, Taryn continued her journey upwards to a door beyond the braziers. She probably would have kept moving under normal circumstances, wet or not, but somehow Taryn had a feeling that the frosty tundra air wouldn't be kind to her. Besides, she felt adequately dry. And her boots weren't squelching as much.

More of the barrow lay beyond, and joining the Nord dead were frostbite spiders littered around the floor. Their eggs had been smashed open, larvae trampled, cobwebs torn from the walls, and the larger specimens of spider dispatched with lightning magicka. They laid on their backs with their legs curled toward their stomachs. Out of curiosity Taryn checked their pincers, and was unsurprised to find the venom, usually dripping into a sticky puddle, was gone. No doubt for use with alchemy.

Short, decrepit tunnels finally led Taryn through the spider nest and into the caverns once more. Her emergence was greeted with more sounds of running water, and upon inspection, Taryn found herself where the Vampire had been standing above Vern. Water slid effortlessly along rocks and pebbles as it was led towards the waterfall. An old railing carved from stone had sunk and was nearly crumbling, but it held fast to the edge of the drop like one holding on for dear life. Taryn turned and began to follow the water. There was another portcullis guarding her path, and a lever to the left. She halted, and began examining the stonework. It was ancient, but completely out of the Nordic barrow's character. The stones were assembled neatly on either side of the portcullis, and the gate itself was arced sharply and more fanciful than what she was used to. This was no longer Nord architecture, but something different, possibly more ancient. Beyond, candles were lit on pillars where stone statues stood guard, hunched over, wings tucked, snarling like animals. Gargoyles, Taryn concluded, but unlike any she'd ever seen before.

A figure examined the statues in the candlelight. That Vampire from before. He glanced distastefully at the light emitted, licked his thumb and forefinger, and began to pinch the lights out, one by one. A Master Vampire. If it wasn't his penchant for darkness that gave him away, Taryn could spot his eyes glowing crimson like a flame, even from where she stood. The Master Vampire's fingers approached the final candle and hesitated. He turned his head towards her, grinned to flaunt his fangs, and put it out.

She automatically stepped away from the portcullis. Even in the pitch blackness, Taryn could feel his presence coming closer. She heard him slosh through the water, saw the glint of steel reflected on his hip. His fingers reached out and clasped the metal of the portcullis, his grin still in place.

"Now, now," he chided, his glowing eyes staring fiercely at her, "what are you doing out of your little cage?"

 _Nothing to be afraid of. He's on the other side._ Taryn flashed him a grin of her own, although considerably less menacing. "Well, you see, I was looking for the bathroom. Think I took a wrong turn at the corpses and spiders. Mind sending me the right way?"

He reached over to his right and pulled something. Slowly, with phenomenal effort, the portcullis raised. _Oh. Well, that would make sense that they'd have a lever on their side. No way to get out if there wasn't a guard on duty._ She stepped backward again and raised her dagger defensively. _But then why would they even have a gate if both sides can open it whenever they want? Kind of loses the use of a gate, come to think of it..._

Leisurely, the Master Vampire slid his sword from his belt and levelled it at Taryn. The setting was clearly in the Vampire's favour. Only the light from behind her could give Taryn any hope of fighting him. She backed away again, and he followed at his own pace. He was savouring it, she knew. _I need every advantage against him, but I can't Shout. That will give me away. That will surely kill me._

"I heard you weren't hard at all to capture, Dragonborn," gloated the Master Vampire. "It would be a shame if I were to spill your blood before Lokil tastes it. Could be a waste."

"I guess I should just come out and tell you I'm not his type." Half a step backwards. The glint of his blade shone brighter than before. "Sad, really, after all the trouble you went through, but there isn't much to be done."

The Master Vampire licked his lips. "Maybe I should sample... Make sure Lokil will enjoy Dragonborn blood..."

"Shall I ring a dinner bell or are you coming now?"

He stepped forward swiftly, thrusting his sword for her left arm. Taryn parried the weapon aside, pirouetted towards him and slashed his shoulder. He hissed loudly and backed away from her, straight into the light streaming into the cavern. He winced and advanced again, his grin having disappeared. Taryn once again tapped his sword away, switched to an icepick grip and grazed the flesh of his stomach. Snarling, the Master Vampire backed away, examining her with more scrutiny than before.

"Either Molva exaggerated his strength, or he misjudged yours." He grinned again. "I've not had someone cut me in decades. I see I've grown soft in my old age."

Taryn patted her middle. "Only around here. But don't fret, that happens when one grows old. Or so I've heard."

He touched his stomach as well, wetted his fingers in the thin layer of blood developing on his fineries, and lifted his fingers to his nose. The Master Vampire inhaled. "Ah, the wounds of battle. I'd forgotten the rush of fire in my veins." Once more, he levelled his sword at her, but his free hand pulled a dagger from his belt, concealed behind his back. "Thank-you for the pause, but now I must stop your run here."

Taryn clicked her tongue in annoyance at the appearance of his second weapon, shrugged, and readied herself. "I've a better idea: I outlive you."

The Master Vampire was a dervish of swings, a flurry of blows, and didn't relent. He pushed Taryn back as she desperately—and narrowly—avoided, blocked, or parried his maelstrom of thrusts and slashes. Then she saw it: a pause in his advancement, an opportunity waiting to be exploited. His arms, both on his right side and readying for another swing, slashed outward again. Taryn's dagger careened for his exposed neck and nicked him, but the Vampire yanked his neck out of the way just in time for the only damage to be naught but a scratch. Taryn cursed at her luck just as his fist connected to her jaw with enough force to send her tumbling. He raised his blades high to stab but brought them down only in dirt, for Taryn had rolled away and leapt up in a crouch. Their positions were reversed again, with his back facing the portcullis and hers the light. The Master Vampire didn't relent in his attacks and finally managed a chop onto Taryn's left shoulder with his sword. Taryn cried out as muscle and bone sliced within her, felt rage and desperation grip her. She lunged at him, dagger primed, and was surprised to see the Master Vampire recoil with such ferocity she thought he'd been hit by a battering ram.

All the same to her, Taryn tackled him to the ground and stuck her dagger into his kidney. His mouth opened in a wordless scream and his hands grasped for her, nearly locking around her hair. She leapt up again, ran for her lever on the left and yanked on it. The portcullis dropped like a stone and impaled the Vampire's chest, shattering his ribcage and piercing his lungs, which filled with blood.

He coughed thick globs of red, grabbed her dagger, the portcullis—she wasn't sure what he was trying to do, but lifting it was out of the question. He wouldn't heal from those wounds.

But still, he managed to spit, "L-L-L-Lycan... Y-You're...!"

Taryn pushed the lever away from herself, and once more the portcullis lifted. Whatever relief the Vampire was seeking was not from the absence of the portcullis. She stooped as she stepped over him to grab his steel sword and admired it when he tried to grab hold of her leg. Her shoulder burned with pain, but the adrenaline numbed it like it had the freezing water.

He managed to cough a few more times before Taryn reached for the second lever, glanced at his prone and dying form on the ground, mumbled, "Woof," and pushed the lever. The portcullis dropped once more and again pierced the Vampire, killing him instantly.

She didn't leave the chamber immediately. Rather, Taryn ripped the sleeves of the Vampire's shirt off and fashioned them as makeshift bandages for her shoulder before advancing. There were at least two Vampires, Molva and Lokil, that Taryn knew would be ahead. No sense in letting them smell her too soon, although she knew it was unavoidable. She passed the cobwebs, the corpse of an obscenely large frostbite spider, eggs that she could have hid herself within, and the unnerving gargoyles on either side of the heavy wooden door leading forward. It creaked as she put her weight on it to shove it inwards, and Taryn was met with a great deal of light. Light that filtered through shattered windows to an enclosed space, but light nonetheless. And they illuminated more gargoyles, within and without the room. She wasted no more time dawdling and immediately swung the door open. The cavernous room before her dwarfed anything she could immediately recall. Water ran below as though it was an enormous lake, and built of stone above that lake was an island, where the columns framing it were linked by arches. On the island, Taryn spotted four Vampires and plenty of skeletons, although they weren't the walking kind.

Their conversation was easy enough to hear. The cave echoed so much that Taryn had to force herself to slow her steps for fear of them hearing before smelling her. So she advanced with great care while she strained to hear every word they spoke.

"We've nearly deciphered the puzzle," announced the Vampire Molva. "Soon, we will obtain what we came for."

"Please... Please... let me rest..." Taryn realized one of the Vampires was not a Vampire at all. Rather, he appeared to be a Nord man, exhausted, and wearing the robes and amulet of a Vigilant of Stendarr. "I... I cannot move my arms any longer..."

Molva snapped at him, "Keep working, Nord, or I'll rip your tongue out so your whining dies!"

"Enough, Molva." The Vampire Molva had been speaking to prior to the interruption was who Taryn assumed to be Lokil, who had probably been a Nord once, but the hollow nose and gaunt face of a Master Vampire eroded his previous features. Only striking red hair remained, nearly down to his shoulders and slicked back, out of his face. A curved sword was hanging from his hip. Taryn recognized it as her own. "Have Vergnar complete the puzzle. There are only a few more places we can move this column before our goal is revealed."

Taryn saw purple flames dancing in a strange pattern on the floor of the island. She held the stone balustrade for stability as she descended down the steps, her eyes fixated on the Vigilant and the Vampires.

Molva shouted at the other Vampire and resumed his place standing beside Lokil. The Vigilant leaned against the column heavily until Vergnar shoved him off and set to work, where the Vigilant remained.

"A long time coming," murmured Lokil. "Lord Harkon will be glad for this day and reward us both tremendously. You even managed to funnel the weak from the strong of the lesser of our kin while slaughtering the Vigilants of Stendarr. Harkon will recognize that."

"I live to serve our Lord, Lokil. He is certain to shower you with the greatest of his gifts."

"I should be glad to have you ascend alongside me. No longer will the Volkihar clan scorn us. We will become their equals, and soon outrank them all. All but Lord Harkon, whom we serve with unwavering loyalty."

"Unlike those cretins that crawled up from the gutter... Should have had them both killed, but Lord Harkon wanted them. Gave them his greatest gift..."

"Hush, Molva. Soon we shall walk amongst them and show them what real power is."

"Lokil?"

"Yes?"

"Do you smell that?"

Taryn had already made her way across the bridge linking to the island. Vergnar shoved the columns alight with violet flames into their apparent correct positions as Taryn's sword thrust deep into Lokil's back and erupted through his chest. The Vampire clutched the blade, gasping in horror and bewilderment. Molva immediately let out a shout and alerted Vergnar, then leapt at Taryn with the fury of a giant. As swiftly as she could, Taryn yanked the sword out from Lokil and swung towards Molva. He ducked and yanked a dagger—her dagger!—from his belt, a dagger Taryn saw. She raised her leg and kicked his hand, though without enough force to disarm him, but it intruded on his attack. He stepped away as Taryn swung again and once more lessened the gap between them, but not fast enough. Her sword came down for a final time and she buried the blade deep inside his skull, chopping apart bone and brain. He died immediately.

The Vigilant found strength welling up inside him and scrambled to his feet, but too late. Vergnar grabbed him, dragged him to a pedestal in the middle of the island and smashed his hand onto a button. A spike emerged from the button and impaled the Vigilants hand. Taryn didn't think she'd ever heard a man howl like he had ever before. She rushed over to he and Vergnar, shoved the Vampire away and swung for his head. Vergnar grabbed for her sword without thinking and got his fingers chopped off. He screamed when his fingers touched the floor, and they spasmed like fat grubs before Taryn sliced his neck open, which spurted blood onto her. Still the Vigilant shouted, as he ripped his hand from the spike, when he curled up and cradled his lame hand, even as the pedestal rose from the ground, and the ground split.

The Imperial lunged forward, grabbed the scruff of the Vigilant's robe and yanked him away from the exposed floor. An onyx sarcophagus rose from the depths of the island, aged like the chipped stone around them. It stopped moving with an audible groan, and then a panel facing where Taryn had come slid downward.

A woman with braided jet black hair, pale skin, sharp, angular features, and tattered clothes tumbled out of the sarcophagus. Taryn released both her sword and the Vigilant to get to the woman and catch her before she hit the ground. She dragged her out, worrying that the sarcophagus would seal itself again, and placed her near the bodies of Lokil and Molva.

Her red-orange eyes flickered open and focused on Taryn as she looked the woman over for any visible wounds. "Uhh..." she moaned, then reached upwards with all her strength to grab Taryn's bracer. "Who sent...?"

"Don't talk," intoned Taryn. "Nod or shake your head, if you've the strength. Are you all right?"

The woman seemed puzzled by Taryn, and the Imperial could see a debate raging behind her eyes, but finally the woman shook her head.

"Sorry, I don't have any potions to help. I'm going to get you out of here. Just give me a moment."

Taryn stood and quickly ran to the Vigilant, but too late—he'd died of blood loss, his face contorted and pained. The Imperial cursed moderately, closed his eyes and tried to place him in a position that she imagined wouldn't be uncomfortable for a corpse. Then she looked towards the sarcophagus once more. Propped up in a corner was a scroll as tall as Taryn from her waist up. It was embellished with gold and silver and jewels, but didn't appear aged in the slightest.

She realized it was an Elder Scroll.

Gingerly, with the utmost care, Taryn plucked the scroll from within and examined it. A belt had been tied onto it for carrying, but otherwise it appeared exactly as the one she'd handled before. There was no mistake; it was, indeed, an Elder Scroll.

But how could that woman have gotten it?

"Please...!" Taryn spun at the woman's gasp. She was staring directly at the Imperial with a desperate, pleading look. "D-Don't—!"

Taryn stared at the woman and then at the scroll, and wondered what to do. Then she stepped over to the woman and handed her the scroll.

"Keep it safe," Taryn said. "Can you walk?"

The woman peered at Taryn, and then nodded hesitantly, though without much difficulty.

"Lean on me if you can't," suggested the Imperial. "I'll grab some things and get you a weapon. Just hold tight."


	6. March

Chapter Five:

March

 _ **10 First Seed, 4E 202**_

Beyond a few barricades that had been erected as checkpoints in the Rift, naught but rain slowed the procession of Dawnguard and Vigilants of Stendarr. Lake Honrich to the warriors' left looked as though someone had taken mighty handfuls of gravel and tossed them into the water without pause or rest. Tymvir's helm was soon removed from his head and hung nearby his sword on his horse's saddlebags to relieve the trembling echo in his head the pelting rain caused. Even exchanged for a mantle and a cowl, Tymvir found little comfort, and lamented his armour's deteriorating condition. But he held his tongue, eager to provide an example for the recruits he led.

Still, his example was not one the Breton Heniel observed. Tolan's young, abrasive pupil had clearly not been practiced in priesthood before his initiation into the Vigilants of Stendarr. He didn't even seem old enough to be in the army, with speckled whiskers poking around his jaw and a face that hadn't quite advanced out of boyhood. Tymvir's glance at the boy's mace on his hip made the Nord wonder if he'd ever swung it at a straw dummy, let alone a man raving and frothing at the mouth. As soon as they'd met with the boy in Riften all he did was talk. And now, he'd evolved into complaining.

"Pox on this rain!" snarled the Breton boy. "And pox on this wind! Divines, I hope it reins itself in before my nostrils freeze! I could escape those damned Vampires, but this cold is what will kill me! It's like wintering in a Nord larder! Sure we haven't got a torch on us? Aw, damn, the rain'll put it out anyhow! I could cast a spell to pretend it's warm but my bollocks won't be able to. Aha! My nose is frozen!"

"Heniel," finally called Tolan over the gusts and the Breton's inane chatter. "Hold your tongue for a mile, will you? I need to pretend the cold isn't here so my leg doesn't feel it."

The Breton turned in his saddle, accidentally pulling the reigns with him (which Tymvir grabbed so Heniel's chestnut stallion wouldn't back into Tolan's grey mare) and glared at the Vigilant. "You should be in a cot, old man. What good are you, coming along with a wound like that? You'll slow us down."

"I need Tolan to identify those possible thralls and help walk me through the scene," Tymvir interjected calmly, noting the glare Tilde was levelling at Heniel. "He's invaluable, since you were on patrol and know nothing."

"We ought to have just left you behind to finish wiping the milk around your mouth," said Beleval, though she was at the back of the procession and Tymvir doubted Heniel heard her, but Agmaer, who rode beside her, raised his shield in front of his face to hide the grin and the laughter he emitted.

Celann smacked Heniel's mount's rump so it continued its normal pace, and Tymvir released the reigns so the boy could take control of the stallion again. "Big mouth for a little man. You'll stop complaining about the cold when you grow some hair on your chest. Now get a move on. We have ground to cover, and we're hindered by rain. We needn't be bogged down by your prattling, either."

The Breton boy grumbled and pulled his cowl further over his face to hide the newfound redness on his face. And for a while it was quiet, allowing Tymvir to gather his thoughts and review his mission.

Along with Celann, Tymvir had gathered his recruits Tilde, Beleval and Agmaer to march at dawn. They'd all been briefed the evening before, and by the occasional yawns that graced their features Tymvir assumed they were too excited for their first mission for much sleep. Agmaer's axe shone as if it was a new purchase, Beleval had plenty of arrows in her quiver, and Tilde's sword had a new set of sheepskin wrappings around the hilt, so Tymvir knew where their sleep had gone. _Vampires aren't impressed with how shiny your weapons are,_ thought Tymvir with a frown, _but if it gives you some extra confidence going into battle, then I have no issues with it._

They'd taken horses from Fort Dawnguard, picked up Heniel in Riften (who, the day before, had insisted he remain in Riften to make sure no Vampires had followed himself and Tolan there), and set off in the pouring rain. Imperial patrols had already stopped them three times to check their travel papers and ask about their business. It was a miracle from the Divines that Heniel kept his mouth shut so Tymvir and Celann could talk through the stops. Not like Tymvir blamed the delay on the patrolling men and women of the Legion. There was a war going on, anyhow. Only months ago, when the Stormcloaks occupied The Rift, they'd done the same to Celann and Tymvir. With less scrutiny, mind, since the Stormcloaks' Nordic superstitions gave members of the Dawnguard the benefit of the doubt. The Empire on the other hand had countless regulations and protocols to get through before they even considered the Dawnguard's purpose. It was the same thing the Vigilants of Stendarr had to experience when wandering the roads of Skyrim, whenever they encountered the Imperial Legion.

And it hindered their progress terribly.

Tymvir was eager to get off the roads and avoid the patrols altogether, but if he and his company were spotted by a watchtower they would most likely be detained, proper papers or not. Armoured men and women sneaking through the autumn brambles of the Rift was a sight most unwelcome to any soldiers protecting their borders, so they were forced to suffer through the Legion's protocol.

"Where should we make camp tonight?"

Tymvir was glad it was Celann who broke the silence and not Heniel. The young man wisely kept his mouth shut a while longer. "I hope we can make decent headway into Eastmarch, then we can camp in the shadows of Velothi. The range should protect us from the winds."

"And which way would we go from there?" asked Tolan. "Once we're past Windhelm there's a crossroads. Harder journey through Winterhold, but if we follow the road the way to Dawnstar it'll take longer."

"Either way doesn't seem ideal," rang Beleval's voice from behind. "If we're to put it to a vote, I suggest the slog through Winterhold. Less checkpoints means less hassle."

Agmaer pursed his lips. "Usually I'm in agreement with you, but I think the road is the safest and swiftest for our journey. We don't want any Vampires catching us tired, cold, and hungry. If they're still around, I mean."

"Your recruits have a point," said Tolan. "Snow's been hard up north for a while though, so either way the bodies of the Vigilants will be preserved, regardless of our journey. And I don't see the Vampires dragging them off."

"Only if they were living, and only for food. Surely then they would have someplace close to take prisoners?" offered Celann. "Tymvir, this is your expedition. What do you suggest?"

"I'd hear from Tilde first."

The Nord woman in question was unusually thoughtful as she rode along behind the company, and Tilde responded aptly, "I am not afraid of taking the dangerous route. The more Vampires we kill along the way, the safer Skyrim will be."

"Well said," praised Celann. "Well, all our recruits have spoken."

"Then we'll take their preferences into account," resolved Tymvir. "I'll decide later, before we make camp. For now, get your papers out again. Looks like another checkpoint up ahead."

_/-\\_

 _ **10 First Seed, 4E 202**_

It was late morning by the time the pale woman awoke, her fiery red-orange eyes becoming slits as they adjusted to the light streaming through a paned window. Shadows of birds danced against the floor while they chirped outside and scavenged tiny sticks and oddments to add to their growing nests as they readied for laying their eggs. The woman blinked, realized how the scene starkly contrasted the darkness she'd become accustomed to, and slowly sat up. Fur blankets slid into her lap from her shoulders. The mattress she'd been sleeping on was soft, though clearly made of straw. The clothes she was wearing, a simple stitched shirt and breeches, itched when she moved, but were far more decent than what she'd been wearing before.

Before? When before? The woman strained to remember but found it too difficult and exhausting. All of a sudden she was tired again, in a strange room, on a strange bed, in strange clothes, and with a rather pungent, lingering odour of hound blood lingering within the room. She wrinkled her nose. How she detested that smell, but what a pleasure to be able to smell something other than dust and herself. The room was alive with other scents, like candles, hunting trophies, the sea—.

The sea! How could she have not noticed that before?! The woman leapt out of the bed and stumbled over to the window. Her footwork was uncoordinated, but that was bound to happen when one is trapped in a crypt, standing for... How much time had passed?

The woman grabbed the windowsill and yanked it upward. The birds startled and flew away with haste, but she didn't care. The woman squinted again at the sun and lamented how it disturbed her eyesight so terribly, but now with the window open she could smell the saltwater. She could hear the bells of the port, the shouting of men on the rigging... Things that hadn't been interesting to her before became treasured, because finally she was out of the crypt. Finally, she was free.

She took a long, measured breath, and only released it once she felt her lungs stinging. Cool, fresh air. Snow under her palms. A chill breeze on the wind. She'd missed it all, and now she was back to experience it once more.

She backed away from the window and closed it gently. A gleam in the corner closest to her caught her eye, and she immediately noticed the grand scroll that she'd been carrying. A scroll that was almost taken from her, but returned... Returned by whom? When?

With the utmost care, she knelt beside it and ran a hand along the jewelled engravings. The Elder Scroll was much more than just a fancy bauble with a hefty selling price; it was everything she wanted to protect from her father. His insanity, his cruel disposition... That gave her pause. Was he even still alive? Was he gone, or did he reign?

Since she had awakened, more questions dominated Serana's mind than answers. She was having difficulty recalling the events that had led her to escape her imprisonment, and how she arrived at sleeping in a broad straw bed in a wooden room. Thankfully, her questions didn't have to wait long for answers. A knock resonated from her door. Serana grabbed the scroll and tucked it beneath the bed before seating herself and shouting, "Come in!"

The door opened slowly, with a struggle, but not because of its weight. The woman trying to open the door clearly had no sort of common sense to place one of the trays she carried on the floor and instead insisted on opening the door with her elbows. Serana made no move to help, but whether it was because she was intrigued by the woman entering her new domain or simply flabbergasted by her horrendous thought process was beyond Serana's knowledge. She felt the need to applaud once the door was open and the woman, grinning proudly, stood in the doorframe.

"Hungry?" she asked with an excited fervour Serana could only attribute to the woman's glorious accomplishment.

The woman didn't wait for Serana's answer, used her heel to shut the door and then walked over to Serana while presenting her with one of the metal trays. She hadn't even known she was hungry until she spotted the freshly-baked bread, thick stew, and cooked venison. Suddenly she had to control herself from salivating. It was then she noticed a bad taste in her mouth and became eager to rid herself of it. Serana gratefully took the tray and tore into the food with fervour, though not enough to give her visitor pause.

"I know how you feel," the woman said and sat down heavily on the bed. "Thank-you for the food, gods of cooking, whomever you may be."

Serana was scooping vast quantities of stew onto her bread to be consumed when she glanced over at the woman, who was doing the same, but with a cheerful grin and not so much a ravenous glint Serana was sure she was sporting at the moment. The bread was salted, she noted, for flavour. A tankard near the corner of the tray was immediately in Serana's hands to wash down her food. Ale. Of course it would be. She expected the metallic tang of blood, but supposed she shouldn't. She wasn't home, after all. Ale would do just fine.

With food settling in her belly, Serana could finally focus herself beyond the smell of the sea. The woman had brought with her the scent of a bleeding dog. She peeked behind her dark strands of hair towards the woman, still working on her bread and stew, and noticed how the woman's armour only barely covered a small puncture mark on her neck. Coupled with the various bandages Serana could see on her arms, her left shoulder, and her back, Serana wondered...

Wait. It explained the taste in her mouth. The foul taste of lycan blood. Serana shivered from the thought that she'd been so bloodthirsty she'd consumed that... _secretion_. She'd never had to before. Never once tasted it. Only smelled it. It was every bit as disgusting as she'd heard.

But Serana was alive. The blood had kept her alive. And now she remembered.

She remembered how the woman who sat beside her, who now gleefully indulged on bread, stew and venison had handed her back the Elder Scroll. Then she helped her to stand, fastened the scroll around Serana, and led the way out of the cave. More than once the woman had to drop Serana to defend them both from pale, sickly-looking beasts with glowing blue eyes, or do battle with snarling, vicious stone gargoyles. She managed to make it through, but not unscathed. Serana felt the need to thank her, and then Serana remembered how they'd emerged from the cave and into relentless sunlight. The woman carried Serana on her back, despite the wound on her back, and marched through the snow. And how had Serana thanked her for risking her life? Damn near losing her mind in the sunlight and sinking her fangs unabashedly into the woman's neck. Serana remembered the surprise and the shock the woman felt, and try as she might, she simply couldn't be rid of Serana, who latched onto the woman's neck like a leech. If not for the atrocious taste Serana would have drained the woman dry. Instead, she managed enough that they would both have the energy for whatever would lie ahead.

In the woman's case, apparently, it was getting them both to a safe location. And that gave Serana pause. The woman could have dropped her in the snow and forgotten about her. So why keep her? Serana, once again, found a question.

"Ah!" breathed the woman, who placed her empty tray beside her on the bed and leaned back in contentment. "That was good! I'm stuffed. Could start sleeping right here if I wanted!"

Serana pursed her lips as she examined her rescuer—for now she could recognize the woman as such. Dark, thick brown hair tied back in a loose plait, eyes like the colour of moss at the base of a trunk, a lithe frame that had clearly seen its share of conflict, as though the scars on the right side of her face didn't clarify that. Serana thought she could have been of Nede descent.

"How was your sleep, Serana? And the food?"

Serana's eyes darted to the woman's, which were fixated on the chandelier above the bed. The woman's feet dangled off the edge of the bed, and she swung them gently as she examined the simple intricacies. "How do you know my name?"

The woman snorted and grinned. "You don't remember?" she asked, and again, didn't await an answer. "You told me last night. After you stuck your fangs in my neck. I said, 'Well, if you're using me for dinner I might as well know your name', and then you said, 'Serana'."

She didn't remember that. Suddenly she was grateful the woman didn't at all wait for her to respond. "I... don't remember a lot of last night."

"The short version is I found you and got you out. I'd tell you the long version but you seem tired yet."

"It's the sun. It drains my energy."

"Ah, right. Should have guessed that. Haven't had a Vampire around in a while, so I'm a bit out of practice. You'll have to forgive me."

Serana debated writing down the mounting questions forming in her head but thought better of it. _Best to start simple,_ she decided. "What's your name?"

The woman sat up, stretched her arms above her head, then offered her hand to Serana. "Taryn. Taryn Greystone."

She peered at the offered hand, then gingerly took it in hers. Taryn's energetic shake was met with Serana's limp arm still gathering strength, although the food had helped.

"Sorry," said the Vampire, "I'm not usually so out of it."

"Well, I can't imagine how long you were in that musty crypt. I can give you a pass for now." She winked and reclaimed her hand. "Anyhow, thought I'd check up on you. Not sure what you're wanting to do once you get your energy back, but I'm preparing to leave."

"Leave?" Serana had to concentrate to keep herself from sounding shocked or surprised.

"I need to find my friends, and they haven't appeared here in Dawnstar. I... want to try Morthal before I head back to the Hall of the Vigilant. With any luck they'll have survived." Taryn bit her lip as she stared at the floor. "I'm not in the habit of just abandoning somebody, so I grabbed a few weapons from those Vampires for you. But if you'd like, I'll wait until you're well rested, then you can come with me."

Serana paused and watched Taryn. At first she'd been worried she might have accidentally made the Imperial a thrall, but she was glad by the direction of conversation that she was not. A thrall would never abandon their maker.

"What happened to your friends?" asked Serana, her eyes narrowing as she wondered, _Are they lycans as well?_

Taryn returned Serana's gaze, crooked a corner of her mouth up in a wry grin, and explained, "Vampires attacked the Hall of the Vigilant while we found sanctuary from the storm. Last thing I remember was hearing a dagger piercing flesh, and my best friend shouting..." Serana noticed something behind Taryn's eyes, but it was gone just as quickly as it had come. "I need to make sure they're both all right. I won't accept their deaths until I see the bodies myself."

"Their chances seem grim based on your memory." Serana clenched a fistful of her blankets in her fingers and stared straight at the wall. Already she felt her strength returning to her, but unless she found something better than lycan blood, she'd likely be at only half strength. Starved Vampires were feral ones, and by that account Serana should have lost her mind long ago. But thanks to Taryn she was stronger than when she'd toppled out of that crypt. "I need to get home. If your friends are on the way there, I'd like it if we didn't part ways yet."

"Well, I'm going to assume you were in that elaborate coffin for a while longer than I'd care to think. Think your home still exists?"

"There are barriers that exist to protect it, erected by our mages to ward off unwelcome visitors. They only really bring it down when they want a shipwreck or two for food." Serana sighed deeply. "I'm not sure if the settlement still stands, but the closest town to the island was Solitude."

"Oh, yeah, that's still around." Taryn smirked, which Serana raised an eyebrow at. _This woman's mocking me,_ she thought dryly. "We could hire a boat at the docks to get to this island you mentioned. There's always someone there who's willing to make extra coin. But I may have to run around Solitude to get some septims first. I barely have enough to pay for supplies for the trip, since all I could find was on those Vampires I killed." Taryn must have noticed how Serana refocused her eyes onto the floor, so she amended, "They kidnapped me, I was justified."

Serana took a deep breath, feeling the cold northern air fill her lungs, and then let out a soft sigh. "And what about your friends?"

Taryn scratched her head. "... The Hall of the Vigilant is south-east from Dawnstar. West is the direction of Morthal and Solitude..." She took her time mulling over the details. "I... If it's all right, I'd first like to backtrack to the Hall. If I don't see their bodies, chances are they also went west."

"Why do you think that?"

"They didn't pass through this lovely town, chances are they went straight to Morthal. If they managed to survive that journey, Morthal has no couriers to track me down, so they themselves would have walked to Solitude. But it's only been a day or so, so I imagine they might be recuperating on the road or in Morthal yet. Assuming they're still alive, that is. If I can't find their bodies at the Hall, we'll come back here, try to hire a boat to Solitude, look around for a while, then get you and your Elder Scroll back home to your secluded, warded island." She grinned and tilted her head. "Sound fair?"

"If you'll give me one more day's rest, I'll go whatever route you want, so long as it gets me home."

"Great!" Taryn stood up, stretched, and then gathered the trays in her hands. "I'll keep looking for odd jobs. You get your rest and let me know when you're ready to leave!"

Serana watched Taryn's ludicrous display of opening the door with her elbows once more, and when the Imperial vanished to the other side, Serana gingerly reached under the bed and pulled the Elder Scroll out. She ran her hands along it, examined the jewel-encrusted handles, and did battle in her mind.

Because was going back to Castle Volkihar really the right thing to do? She just wanted to be back in the safety of its walls, surrounded by familiar faces, even if her father's might be among them, and even if she might be playing into his hands, hand-delivering the Elder Scroll to him.

What choice did she have?

_/-\\_

 _ **10 First Seed, 4E 202**_

Eduard leaned over the washbasin heavily, shoulders sagging with relief, dipped his hands into the water and splashed it over his face. Droplets flew everywhere, few returning to the basin, but Eduard didn't care. Just having the ability to wash off the blood and grime of days before was a tremendous opportunity. He wiped his hands over the whole of his face, mask lying somewhere in the straw of the barn, and scrubbed veraciously. He completely forgot the cloth lying beside him, except when he used it to wipe the water from his face.

The priest uttered a weighty sigh and let his hands (and the cloth) fall into his lap. He was kneeling against the stone floor of the barn, but was almost completely immune to the frosty air slipping through the door, despite almost completely disrobing himself. It was a familiar feeling to wash his face in front of a cold wind, thanks to his birthplace, a city that had since been converted into the "Labrynthian".

He tried to stretch but flinched as the wound in his side tore open again. Cursing, Eduard grabbed a few more strands of clothing he'd torn apart and wrapped them around the old ones on his abdomen, which were crusty with dried blood, and now had more staining them.

With the bandages tied securely, Eduard dipped his bare hands once more into the basin and ran the water through his hair to keep it out of his face, then slowly and carefully lifted it so as not to strain his wound, and walked it over to his companion lying in the straw, tucked away in a stall in the far corner of the barn.

For an Argonian, Milos looked terribly pale. Eduard had done his best to try to close both their wounds, but he was no healer. That much was evident, given the circumstances in which he came hurtling through time. He'd been plagued by a wound from a poisoned axe for a day or two before he'd first spoken to the Dovahkiin. It wasn't until she'd identified it that he'd gotten proper treatment (though from reproachful enemies). Eduard was surprised he'd managed to get himself and Milos where they were, considering the circumstances.

The Argonian was doused in a cold sweat and shivered periodically. Pursing his lips, Eduard began the monumental task of removing Milos' armour and trying not to harm him in the process. A few times Eduard had to be careful moving it, and more than once Eduard saw Milos' mouth contort in pain, but finally he removed the breastplate and had a clear view of the penetrated mail.

 _Their daggers were unusually powerful,_ thought Eduard, _or the bodies that wielded them were unnaturally strong._ His thoughts focused on the Vampiric companion the Dovahkiin had brought along on her quest to face Alduin (a goal, Eduard admitted, that had seemed suicidal a handful of months ago). That man, Aldren, had focused solely on watching his mark and poking at their weaknesses rather than exerting brute force. The Vampires who attacked the Hall of the Vigilant had missed his and Milos' vital organs at point-blank range, so Eduard could only conclude that they were meant to die slowly. It wasn't as though the Vampires were going to the market to pick up something to eat; they intended to make an example of that place, and as the few worthy combatants who resisted, the Vampires had left them simply because they could.

Eduard moved the mail away from Milos' wound as he began to tend it. It was worse off than his own, which Eduard was not pleased with. He was certain he'd have been crushed under the Argonian's weight had adrenaline not been pumping through him, and had he not been focusing on finding a safe place, away from the Vampires.

Unfortunately—Eduard shook his head and corrected his thoughts—they had to leave the Dovahkiin behind in order to escape. Simply put, there were too many of those bloodsuckers crawling around, and in the shape they were in, they'd be more useful as doormats.

When Eduard finished cleaning around Milos' wound, he began the task of weaving a thread from his robe through the needle the owners of the barn were kind enough to lend him. Only when it was safely tied in place did Eduard dip a tightly-wound makeshift bandage into the bloody water basin until it was thick with weight. He unceremoniously placed it in Milos' mouth and pressed it tightly shut. He saw the Argonian's jaw tighten, even more so when Eduard summoned a flicker of flame from his straining pool of magicka and held it to the needle's tip.

"This will hurt," said Eduard matter-of-factly. "Try not to move, or I won't be able to reduce the pain."

Slowly, steadily, Milos nodded. Eduard tied the end of the thread into a thick knot, and then pushed the needle through Milos' skin. The Argonian twitched and clamped down on the wet bandages in his mouth, lips curled to reveal threatening teeth, but he didn't move or any sounds louder than hissing. Eduard carefully weaved the needle through the Argonian's soft stomach flesh to seal the wound, and he made a concentrated effort not to stop or slow until the stitching was complete. Then Eduard tightened it, knotted the other end and sliced through the last of the thread with his dagger.

As Eduard tied the last of the bandages around Milos' middle, the Argonian half-heartedly spit out the wet clothing and groaned painfully. His eyes were groggy and unfocused, but that was what Eduard expected. He would need food and rest before he could even see straight again.

But Milos managed to whisper, "Thanks," hoarsely to Eduard before he closed his eyes. Eduard gathered the wet clothing Milos spat out and made his way out of the stall. Back in the middle of the barn, Eduard unbandaged the two layers around his abdomen and began cleaning his own wound. It had been in the process of forming a large scab when he stretched and ruined it, but it would have done little for him, anyway.

Taking a deep breath, Eduard repeated the process he'd just completed with Milos, though in lieu of anything in his mouth. He cleaned the wound, then threaded the needle, and warmed the tip. Eduard pressed his forefinger and middle finger on either side of his wound, pushed them together (Eduard hissed very much like Milos had), prepared himself mentally, then shoved the needle in. Eduard buckled forward and was suddenly glad he'd decided to kneel rather than stand. He clenched his teeth together so tightly he thought they'd crack, but forced himself to sit straight again to continue the tedious stitching. He lost count of the stitches he made, but was glad when it ended, and quickly tied the bandages he'd previously used (speckled with blood rather than coated, like the others) around his body.

There wasn't a healer for miles. No mage or housewife who really knew what they were doing, so Eduard was forced to this. But better to endure that pain rather than waste away. He needed to get back to his home, his time. There were things he hoped he could alter or change. Perhaps he could even reach the summit of the Throat of the World before Alduin was tossed into Time...

But then...

Eduard grabbed his abdomen and forced himself to stand. He dragged his feet to a nearby stall where he'd carelessly tossed his father's mask onto a bed of hay, scooped it into his hand and replaced it on his head. Then, without another moment's hesitation, he lowered himself onto the prickly bed and surrendered to exhaustion.

He couldn't dwell on those thoughts. He knew he shouldn't.


	7. Going in Circles

Chapter Six:

Going in Circles

 _ **12 First Seed, 4E 202**_

"... And then—really, you won't believe it—Martin erupted from the Temple of the One, an avatar of Akatosh, and struck Mehrunes Dagon under his chin! They fought tooth and nail, sprawling over the district, laying waste to all they came into contact to, until finally Martin clamped his jaws around Dagon's throat and tossed him in a heap to the ground. Fire spurted from his maw towards the bloody sky, and from that day onward, the fourth era began, and Martin, encased in a tomb of stone as the avatar of Akatosh, can still be seen in the Imperial City to this day."

Serana's mouth was agape as she listened to Taryn with the eagerness of a child. They'd started on their journey from the settlement of Dawnstar to the Hall of the Vigilant, where it was decided they would walk first to see if Taryn's companions were still alive or not. After all, it didn't make much sense to head west, turn back east, then west again when they could only stand to lose a few days, especially if her friends were wounded. But Taryn was an optimistic individual. If Serana ever asked if she worried for her friends, or even wondered if they were still alive, Taryn would grin and offer the same response she'd been using since Serana had asked the first time:

 _"Well, I would be less of a friend and more of a babysitter if I wondered so much. It will take much more than a couple Vampires to stop those two."_

Serana was inclined to believe her, especially since Taryn didn't only regale the Vampire with stories of ages past. She was also glad to tell her of recent events, most notably the return of dragons to Skyrim, and the few times the Imperial (as Serana was also corrected about Taryn's ethnicity) and her friends would encounter them. The scars on Taryn's face weren't the only ones present, thanks to her run-ins.

"And the Hero of Kvatch—the Champion of Cyrodiil—what happened to him?" asked Serana dubiously. "Where did he go?"

"Some tell tales of his leaving for Akavir to find the Nerevarine, who left before him, if you recall. Others insist he found his way to the Shivering Isles—the domain of the Madgod Sheogorath—and became a god. Really, the only tried and true facts you'll get out of anyone would be the adventure they had during the crisis going on. Everything afterward... it becomes faded, blurry." Taryn lifted her arms above her head in a long stretch. "The Elder Scrolls will rarely help guide our knowledge, but state what will happen. Most recent one involved the return of Alduin the World-Eater and the dragons as a whole. Fun time, that. You wouldn't believe how much ale it took to get the Imperials and the Stormcloaks to play nice so that nightmare could be dealt with."

Serana nodded reflectively. "I've missed a lot..."

"Jealous. Wish I could have a nap for a few centuries. I swear, I never get to sleep in anymore."

The light derisive turn made Serana smile. Regardless of the grim circumstances that found her in that crypt, she was glad it was over, and leave it to her companion to try to help cheer her up.

"You're a decent storyteller," complimented the Vampire. "Did you practice mummings at all?"

"Mummings?" Taryn grinned again, flashing her teeth. "I wish. No, I just told stories to the kids in my orphanage to keep them quiet and entertained. Had to improve, or I'd just be talking to myself the next few hours."

"You're an orphan?"

She shrugged. Perhaps it was because she'd been asked frequently, but Serana noticed how it was as though Serana had asked if Taryn fancied trousers over breeches. As though her past was irrelevant. "Things got complicated quickly. I was raised in Anvil, by the sea, and made my way to Skyrim afterward. Not really on good terms with the Imperial Province at the moment, which is unfortunate, because I wonder how everyone's doing..."

The Vampire bit her lip. While their relation may no longer have been on the best of terms, Serana could always remember the love she'd felt when she was with her mother and father, before her father's lust for power drove him away, before she became a Daughter of Coldharbour.

The mood almost seemed to darken. Serana avoided watching Taryn for too long so as not to make her uncomfortable, and instead fixed her gaze on the horizon. She squinted against the sun only just reaching its greatest heights in the sky to peer further ahead. She could just make out wisps of silver smoke against the mountain.

"There." She pointed ahead. "Smoke. I think it's that Hall of the Vigilant you were talking about."

Taryn grinned once more. "Can you see anything else ahead? Anything I might have to greet politely with my sword through its gut?"

Serana quietly focused again. "Horses," she amended. "Quite a few. Saddled with tack and tied to a post not far from the wreckage. But I don't see any riders."

"That's just wonderful." Sighing, the Imperial began rotating her shoulders and stretching with renewed vigour. "Vampires don't often ride horses, eh?"

"No. We can easily run wherever we need to be."

"Thought as much. So this is what I'm thinking: either some Vigilants returned to their home and found someone burned down the kitchen, or we have some looters trying to scavenge from the bodies of the dead. You can imagine I would prefer the former."

"Is it really all right to joke about their comrades finding bodies?"

"No, but it is the best way I'm able to deal with the smell."

Perhaps it was because of Taryn's own, underlying smell that she didn't notice, but Serana took a moment longer to adjust her nose to the scent Taryn had pointed out. Flesh, burned days beforehand, but still fresh thanks to the unbroken chain of flame. The blaze had more than enough to feed it for this long, whether it be wood or bodies. The stench made Serana wrinkle her nose. She was quickly sick to her stomach, because among the flesh of mortals, she could also smell the bodies of vampires turned to ash.

"It's going to get worse up ahead." Taryn stopped and dropped her bag in the snow. Serana watched as the Imperial removed her mantle with practiced fashion, wound it up tightly, and then secured it to her pack. In an instant, she had also yanked out a dirty shirt which smelled richly of dirt and metal. She shredded the arms without a second thought, and then handed one of the sleeves to Serana. "Wrap this around your mouth and nose if it's going to bother you. I know I can only stomach it for so long before I feel the urge to gag."

"Honestly, these may be worse," replied the Vampire as she precariously held the sleeve between two fingers.

"Suit yourself. I know a Vampire's nose gets a lot more detail than a mortal, though, so it might be smart to pick the lesser of two evils here."

Taking one last, deep breath, Serana wrapped the torn sleeve around the lower half of her face, like she was instructed. Taryn had already completed that and hauled her bag back onto her backside. But Serana also noticed how Taryn had freed her curved sword for ease of drawing.

Serana asked, "Do you always expect a fight to break out?"

"Often," acknowledged the Imperial. "I don't get out of a lot of establishments without someone wanting to run a blade across my throat."

"Ever think it's because you can't withhold your sarcasm?"

"It's part of my charm."

"If you say so."

They neared the site of the Hall of the Vigilant. What was once a welcoming lyceum for the Vigilant of Stendarr was reduced to naught but slag and embers. Bodies armoured and robed were clutching their weapons, the last vestiges of the Vigilants who bravely rose to the defence of their sanctuary. Taryn cursed when she stepped through what she thought was just another pile of snow, but the texture was very wrong, and she kicked it out of her way unceremoniously. Serana nearly flinched, but managed to recall that whatever Vampire that ash pile once was, it had been part of the attackers, and no doubt put itself and Taryn on opposing sides.

The westernmost side of the hall, though collapsed, obviously didn't crumple to flame like the rest of the residence. Sparse pieces of its side had flown numerous yards away, some masked by snow, others having come to rest amongst the jagged rocks of the mountainside. Trails of flame that burned through the snow were less common than the red blood staining the powdery snow, long since frozen and in no hurry to melt by the sun's rays.

Taryn was uncharacteristically quiet as she picked through to the western side of the hall. As she began searching, Serana noticed the numerous footprints in the snow. Whomever dismounted from their horses and began poking around the ruins were being extremely thorough.

"Aha!" Taryn followed a set of footprints from the eastern side of the hall and towards the pass she and Serana had come through to get there. "Look, these are imprints of cloth. You can see because of the ruffling. It's Eduard's, and based on the depression, he was dragging something heavy. I'll bet my lucky septim that's Milos!"

"It's accompanied by a blood trail," noted the ancient woman.

"I heard them get stabbed before I was knocked unconscious. Those Vampires must have missed their vital organs, but the blood..."

"I know. The trail is heavy. They may have staunched the bleeding ahead, but escaped while the Vampires were distracted."

Taryn nodded as she considered Serana's point. "Anyhow, now I know they escaped. Perhaps heading to Morthal might have been the wiser choice..."

"We don't know if they made it that far."

"You're right. We'll need to follow the trail. I hope we're not too late."

"And now that we've determined your friends are still alive—rather, they were when they made a run for it—can you tell how many people are here? We're right under their noses at the moment."

"Well, that's obvious enough. Count the horses. There are enough pairs of footprints to match the number. Wouldn't make much sense to have this many horses and one or two people walking." The Imperial absent-mindedly walked towards the hitched horses, precariously placing her feet around the footprints that had dismounted. "The tracks for the horses have bits of mud in them. I'd usually say they came from Morthal, but the tracks also come from the east, towards Winterhold, so I can assume they came from Windhelm or Riften, because coming from Whiterun, it would only be prudent and logical that one would enter through the shortest route in Morthal. As for the boot-prints themselves..." She examined them silently for a brief moment. "Seven horses, seven people. Soldiers or mercenaries, since their boot depressions are heavy, indicating weighted armour. The prints also drag from step to step to support that. See?" She motioned towards the prints as she continued to follow them. "Horses don't have the Imperial or Stormcloak standards. Only officers really ride, and they would not be on a scouting mission and have a need to hide the standards. Boots are too heavy for Stormcloaks, too light for the Empire. Could have been Vigilants, but they prefer to walk, not ride, and don't travel in such a large group."

"Looks like they were examining the wreckage."

"Precisely. They dismounted and began looking for survivors. This one's got a limp. Another rushed ahead. Powder's completely disturbed. They started digging out the dead from the snow. One knelt down at every corpse to document them. There's some ink that's spilt here. Trying to determine who's a friend or a foe. So perhaps these men were hired if some Vigilants managed to escape, and the remaining Vigilants accompanied them to help identify the dead?"

Serana balked when Taryn began following three sets towards the jagged black rocks of the mountainside. "How can you get all of this from footprints?"

The Imperial lifted the mask she'd fastened from a sleeve and smirked. "I made a lot of friends in low places. Their particular talents rubbed off, especially considering how they were more than happy to pass on their knowledge. Besides, I thought it would be useful."

"It's proving to be."

"Thanks." She stopped at the foot of stairs that had been carved out of the rock. They were precarious and icy, and had recently been cleared of snow. "Ah. This is where those Vampires dragged me."

"The crypt you found me in?"

"Yes. Though we were fortunate to come out the other side. I wouldn't have liked the odds if I found my way back here and there were nothing but Vampires as far as the eye can see. Then I wouldn't have happened upon you."

Serana stepped beside Taryn and put a hand on her shoulder, leading her to face her. "I appreciate that. I don't know what would have happened had they gotten their hands on the Elder Scroll."

"You and me both. You've got to have some sort of protection you can use to keep it safe. Why else would you have it?"

 _Why else, indeed?_ wondered Serana.

"Well," said Taryn, "we'd better think about getting out of here before-."

A deafening, painful scream came from within the depths of the cavern in the mountainside. Taryn dropped her bag and drew her sword as she rolled her eyes.

"By the Divines," she growled as she took the steps three at a time, Serana on her heel, "this always happens!"

_/-\\_

 _ **12 First Seed, 4E 202**_

Tymvir led Agmaer and Celann towards the unnatural mounds at the mountainside. Together, the three began brushing aside the snow. Behind them, Tilde, Heniel, Tolan, and Beleval examined the dead, preserved (as they assumed) by the cold. Tilde had a piece of parchment folded on her knee as she wrote down names that Tolan and Heniel whispered painfully. A record of the dead.

"Stairs," declared Celann. "So that must be their lair, and where they might have taken any survivors for feeding."

"Dimhollow Crypt," Tolan affirmed. "Brother Adalvald was sure it held some long-lost Vampire artefact of some kind."

"Almost all Vigilants who were at the hall are accounted for, sir," announced Tilde. "No sign of those travellers Tolan mentioned."

"Alas," added the aforementioned Vigilant, "there are too many ash piles to distinguish thrall from Vampire. They may have perished." Beside him, Heniel was quiet, for the first time since the morning began. Tolan placed a hand on the boy's shoulder. "Otherwise, some of the creatures have not disintegrated. The ice has prevented them from turning to ash under the sun's rays."

Celann rubbed his beard beside Tymvir. "We might think of performing an autopsy on some then. Take them back to the fort."

"The journey would be slow, but I agree," affirmed Tymvir. "It's a rare chance we may not receive again."

Heniel stepped away from Tolan and towards the Dawnguard commanders. "Shouldn't we enter that place? Some Vigilants may yet still live."

"Yes, but we won't go anywhere without a plan." Tymvir paced at the foot of the steps. "We have no idea how many hide within, nor how many of your brothers and sisters are held prisoner, let alone how many might be crushed beneath the ruins."

"Thanks to that blasted hole, no doubt," observed Agmaer. "You'd have to float to avoid stepping on the splinters. What happened to that wall?"

The question was directed towards Tolan, who shrugged regretfully. "Thought it might have been an explosion. The wall burst, but there was no flame. And it sounded an awful lot like someone yelling, not a typical sound for an explosion."

"True enough." Celann turned towards Tymvir. The Nord, just like Celann, no doubt, recalled their banter about the Dragonborn in Fort Dawnguard. "But unless the Vigilants have been hiding the Dragonborn from us, no one who fits the description could perform such a feat."

"I insist, the Vigilants did not have the Dragonborn among our ranks," stated Tolan firmly. "And all's left are those travellers: the man in the mask, the Argonian, and a little Imperial girl with a scar."

"And I can attest no one can be further from the Dragonborn's description than those three," insisted Tymvir.

"Very well. So, a fire, the attack, an explosion, and the executions. That doesn't leave a lot of room for thinking there are prisoners." Celann pointed to a body Tilde knelt beside. "His throat's slit. These Vampires had an agenda, otherwise they wouldn't have killed a man who couldn't even run. He'd have been food in an instant."

"But not all Vigilants are here that slept in the hall that night," said Tymvir to remind his companion. "Some might have been taken, but perhaps for a more nefarious purpose than simply drinking their blood."

Heniel scoffed at the men. "Vampires only feed. Sure, some can hide among the living and prey on them in the night, but what purpose could the vampires have?"

"For one, cast your eyes on the scene," interjected Beleval. The Bosmer swept her arm towards the smouldering ruins of the Hall of the Vigilant—now ironically named. "The Vampires ambushed your hall from the brambles there, then quickly overwhelmed the Vigilants thanks to their soft treading. They were upon you to kill your brothers and sisters with barely any sort of resistance. And only because one of your people panicked and set fire to their own hall. You can see where the fire started, in one of the private rooms. Besides, Vampires don't often wield what they avert themselves from." She stopped and glared at the young man. "So, they attacked to kill you all, were only discovered because of some half-asleep sentry, murdered those too weak to escape, and dragged whatever remained into the cave. Now, if we consider this, we must not ignore the fact that those Vampires might be trying to awaken a powerful one entombed within."

"It's a cave," snapped Heniel. "All they'll find in there is mildew and bugs. Actually, bugs wouldn't dare be this far up north, thanks to the cold. So mildew exclusively."

"I wouldn't mind tossing a little snot such as yourself in there to find out, milk-drinker."

The young Vigilant drew himself up, ready to argue, when Tymvir stepped in-between the two. He bunched up their mantles and cloaks in his fists. "You two had best keep your gods-damned voices down. If they're still inside, they'll hear you both. And I'm not keen on losing any more people to those daedra-touched monsters." As the two reluctantly avoided each other's gaze, Tymvir released them. "If you've got a problem, sit on it until we're out of danger. But Beleval, you're under my command. You'll bite that tongue even if it bleeds. Is that understood?"

Quietly, the womer replied, "Yes, sir."

And just as a triumphant grin split Heniel's face, Tymvir rounded on the boy. "I also expect better from a man of the cloth. Be as incredulous to Vampires as you want, but the truth of the matter is they outsmarted you, and it wasn't for lack of us Dawnguard trying to warn the Vigilants of the true cunning of those monsters. You, yourself, were on patrol, weren't even around when it happened. I'm willing to bet Tolan hasn't even let you get your weapon wet with blood, your hands warm and coated in the ebbing life of your enemy. So contradict me, boy. Tell me you're man enough to stand with us and consider all points of view. Because if you aren't, don't bother following us back to Fort Dawnguard. Go home."

Heniel's smile had faded with every word Tymvir spoke, and by the end, Heniel's eyes were cast on the ground. But it silenced the argument and that was all Tymvir wanted. The entire contingent was quiet as Tymvir strode to his horse and unfastened his helmet from the saddlebags.

"Celann, I want you to stay back with Tolan and Heniel. Agmaer, you stick with him. Beleval and Tilde, you're coming with me into the cave. I want Tilde to cover the rear and signal for the others to follow as soon as we've cleared a path, if there's one that needs carving. Meantime, everyone, get your weapons out. We won't be taken by surprise this day. Not again."

_/-\\_

 _ **12 First Seed, 4E 202**_

Taryn led the way as they bolted into the cave, submerged in darkness as the path narrowed. She followed the torchlight, obviously acknowledging that Serana would be better accumulated to darkness than she, and finally they burst into an antechamber, humid and stained with blood.

Allowing a weathered path to lead her to a portcullis some yards away, Taryn stepped lightly and examined the bloodbath around her. A Vampire lay on a rock across from the portcullis, his strange, fanged hounds at their master's feet, most certainly dead. Taryn didn't bother to examine the corpses too much and immediately started for the portcullis. She ripped the sleeve from around her mouth and gripped the lever, rusted from unuse, to pull. Without a doubt, someone else had been there. Taryn, at least, certainly expected more resistance. But the portcullis rose with an unearthly groan and allowed them entry.

"They all died really recently," noted Serana, who was crouched over their bodies. "Can't have been longer than fifteen minutes. Perhaps twenty."

"Sorry to drag you in here again," Taryn offered sheepishly. "But that scream didn't come from a Vampire."

"I know. Never heard a Vampire scream like that before."

Taryn led Serana forward again, following a thick trail of blood, blade raised and at a ready position for anything. There was a tower on their right, oddly enough, so they scaled the steps around it and finally emerged into another room, where an arrow ricocheted off of stone by Taryn's head.

The Imperial ducked and pushed Serana back as she pressed herself against the cold, wet stone. She recalled her previous delve into the cave in her escape from it, thanks to the freezing droplets of water clinging to her shirt beneath her armour.

A bowstring was drawn within the doorway. "Show yourselves, you bloody cowards!" a womer exclaimed. "I'll come over there and put an arrow in your skulls!"

"That's hardly a way to greet anyone!" shouted Taryn, gripping the wrappings of Dragonbane tightly. "We heard a shout and came to help! Are you all right?"

"You won't fool us, thieves!" snarled a man. "You've come to rob the bodies of the dead Vigilant, Stendarr's servants!"

"If that were my goal, wouldn't I not have run in to a cave that obviously had wounded men?" Taryn raised Dragonbane and slowly lifted it towards the doorway. "Look, here's my sword. This is my weapon. I'm also armed with a bow and arrows, and a knife in my boot. My companion has a dagger. We'll put our weapons away if you will."

"I don't trust you, you dishonourable knaves!"

The man's outburst was caught by the womer. "Agmaer, hold. Don't get too excited. We don't need anyone else wounded." She seemed to consider, and even whispered to a different man, who whispered back. "All right. Weapons sheathed, and come out with your arms behind your heads. Then we'll talk."

Taryn glanced at Serana, who watched her incredulously. "We don't have much choice," she muttered, and slowly slid Dragonbane into its sheathe. "All right!" she called. "Weapons away. We're coming around the corner."

Taryn placed her hands behind her head and led Serana through the doorway. The Bosmer woman there still had an arrow nocked in her bowstring, but the string was lank, not taut. A man standing beside her with an axe in hand (Agmaer, Taryn assumed) was glowering at them. Those two wore strange, leather lamellar armour, dyed red. There were two other men, both Taryn recognized as Vigilants of Stendarr. One was Tolan, who she'd only met a few days before, when he opened the hall to herself, Milos, and Eduard to sleep.

The second man, more of a boy, was trying to mask his sobbing with his robe and dared not look at them.

"What happened?" asked Taryn. Her eyes were immediately affixed to Tolan's leg, which was only hanging on by a thread of muscle and sinew. Tolan was terribly pale, and blood was pooled beneath him, his head resting on the young man's lap.

Agmaer pursed his lips. "You saw those creatures at the entrance, aye?"

"Yes, obviously."

"One of those mutts snuck past us, damn near ripped Brother Tolan's leg off. We killed it as quick as we could, but the damage is done."

"At best, he'll lose a leg," added the Bosmer woman. "At worst..."

"He doesn't look in good shape." Taryn turned to Serana. "Hey, those torches back there. Grab me one, will you?"

Serana cast a glance at the archer and the warrior, but when it appeared they wouldn't argue, Serana slipped out the doorway and back to the entrance. Taryn let her arms slowly return to her sides, testing for hostility.

"I'm going to try to help. I can't guarantee I can do anything, but it's better to try than sit around like politicians, eh?"

Agmaer's eyes darkened. "No way you're getting anywhere near-!"

"Agmaer!" The Bosmer woman silenced him. "Would you like to tell your ancestors in Sovngarde you let a man die because you refused help for him?"

"How convenient for them to appear to us just now! They could be thralls for the Vampires!"

Taryn snapped, "Nord, are you going to keep arguing or would you like me to attempt to save your friend? Because he's going to die if you leave that boy crying over him!"

Serana returned with a torch in hand. Taryn grabbed it and briskly stepped around Agmaer, since the Bosmer had grabbed him. The boy in Vigilant robes was still sobbing.

"I'm going to draw my sword. It's sharp and will cut through the last of his tendons so I can cauterize the wound and stop the bleeding. But there's a lot, so I might not be able to save him."

"Better that you try," said the Bosmer. "Don't make any sudden moves. I'm watching you."

"Oh, I know."

Taryn motioned for Serana to wait at the doorway. She didn't need a Vampire so near a dying man, especially since the armoured womer and Nord man seemed to have some deeper connection to the Vigilants than Taryn could have guessed by their footprints. The Nord Agmaer's hostility could only be attributed to his fear, Taryn noted. While the womer's hands were white-knuckling her bow, Agmaer could only channel it outwards. He stomped nearby, axe readied.

"If you dare think this makes you any less suspicious—!"

"Less than, say, some armoured mercenaries hired by the last Vigilants?" She wasn't contradicting her thought from before. Rather, she was probing him. He was green, both figuratively and literally. That skirmish might have been his very first battle. And she needed to decide how dangerous they were.

"We're Dawnguard!" exclaimed the Nord as he furiously wiped some blond hair out of his eyes. "Not mercenaries! We're here to exterminate the Vampires! Tymvir, Celann, and Isran all knew how dangerous they were, and now look! The Vigilant of Stendarr lie in ruins!"

"And their destruction does not explain your presence here," added the womer. "Scavengers would run away knowing there were others here, even armed as you are. Concerned citizens? People are barely able to toe the doorframe of their homes since the war started. I'd almost say bandits, but..."

"It's the scar, isn't it?" Taryn poked.

"Yes."

"That's the impression everyone gets nowadays." Taryn unsheathed Dragonbane and levelled it at the muscle and sinew. "He might be too far gone to feel this, but keep him steady," she told the boy.

He barely acknowledged her, but she saw his grip on Tolan tighten.

"Good." Taryn brought the blade down on the strands. They severed immediately under her sharpened blade, and she swiftly jammed the torch against Tolan's stump. The man hardly flinched. Perhaps he'd already lost too much blood. Taryn slipped Dragonbane back into its sheathe.

Tolan was clammy and pale, but had just enough strength to open his eyes. First he gazed upon the boy and smiled, then Tolan's eyes turned down towards Taryn. With what strength he had left, he balked and whispered, "Y-You..."

Tolan passed quickly. Agmaer grimly knelt beside the Vigilant. "Walk to Sovngarde, Brother Tolan, to the arms of your ancestors."

The boy leaped and grabbed the scruff of Agmaer's armour. "You! You could have...! You son of a bitch! You just stood around shaking like a fucking dog and let him die!"

Before the womer could move, Taryn was there, between the two. "That's enough!" she hissed. "You two idiots! You want to fight over a dead man? Do it when he's buried! You dishonour his memory as a friend and comrade!"

It shut both of them up quickly, but Agmaer shoved himself away from the two and stomped over to the Bosmer woman.

"Taryn?"

The Imperial thought Serana might have called her, but she realized it hadn't come from Serana's mouth. It was too... squeaky? Pubescent, she supposed. So Taryn looked at the boy she still had a hand on.

"Heniel?" Taryn whispered. "Divines, is that you?"

Heniel was not completely as Taryn remembered him. He'd been a lanky boy, even back in Anvil, so quiet and eager to please. He still hadn't grown much from that time, but the stubby whiskers growing along the lower half of his face seemed to indicate his advancing age. His eyes were red and puffy from his relentless sobbing.

Taryn remembered the last time she'd seen Heniel. About five years ago, he'd been extremely insistent on leaving for High Rock and finding his relatives to stay with them, instead of being stuck in Anvil, as he had for years already. The ship fares were too expensive, and by hiding on board, he risked lashes. Taryn had been younger then, but stood behind him in finding his relatives, though she tried to convince him to stay a few years more, considering his age. Regardless, she'd helped him accumulate supplies over time. Some of the other children in the orphanage thought they might get the same idea as Heniel, but without relatives and no truly distinct homeland, their hopes dwindled.

Their plan was discovered some time later by the Madame of the orphanage. In a furious rage, she struck Taryn and started after Heniel. Taryn grabbed her to stop her, and shouted for Heniel to flee. He did. He didn't look back, not when the Madame whirled on Taryn with her walking stick, not when the guards rushed to the orphanage to see the commotion. A fee was levied on the Madame for beating a minor under her care and allowing another to leave the "protection" of the orphanage. But Taryn had spent weeks bedridden, in terrible pain whenever she moved, and fed the absolute bare minimum to keep her alive, as well as whatever the other children could sneak by the Madame. It was the last time she saw Heniel, sprinting away to the hills of Cyrodiil.

"W-What are you doing in Skyrim?" the boy asked.

"Long story," she replied softly. "Gods, Heniel, you've grown a bit!"

He wiped his eyes. "No, I haven't..." He glared over at Agmaer. "Pox on them, letting Brother Tolan die like that..."

Taryn pursed her lips. "Don't be like that. Maybe they were just as scared as you. Come now, tell me what happened."

Heniel sputtered as he tried to find the correct words to use. After a moment, Taryn heard from Serana, "Someone's coming." Serana's eyes were fixed on the door ahead.

Two men appeared, promptly followed by a Nord woman, and they entered with their weapons drawn. Blood was splattered across their armour and weapons, indicating their battle. Their tense demeanour didn't waver, especially when they saw their visitors, and Tolan dead on the floor.

The armoured men levelled their weapons at Taryn. Serana stepped forward and wedged herself between them promptly, before Taryn could so much as draw a weapon to defend herself.

"Heniel, step away," said one of the armoured men, the largest, who wielded a greatsword.

"She seems to fit that description of the Imperial Tolan told us about," observed the second man, who levelled his axe and shield at the women. "Scar over her eye, green eyes, pale skin..."

"Serana," whispered Taryn, "step away. I can handle this before it gets messy."

"It's already messy," the Vampire replied, and her eyes cast about the room. Taryn followed her gaze. The five Dawnguard had their weapons drawn and trained on her.

"Why did Tolan have a description of me?" Taryn demanded as she stepped around Serana, reversing their positions.

The large Dawnguard man responded, "You and two others were in the hall the night it burned. The Vigilants of Stendarr gave you shelter, but you are thralls of Vampires!"

Taryn glanced over her shoulder to Serana. "Well, this is awkward," she mumbled. "Look, you have it wrong. Yes, my friends and I sought shelter from the storm that night. The Vigilants put us in the basement. We woke up thanks to the fire and the shouting and escaped just before the building collapsed, but my friends were stabbed by the Vampires, and I was dragged into this bloody hole. I came back to find them. That's why I'm here."

"If this rings true," said the Dawnguard with the axe, "how did you escape the clutches of the Vampires?"

"Killed one in my cell to escape. From there, killed a few more, then found my way out. There were giant stone-monsters too, and draugr, so I'm not really keen to revisit that at the moment."

Heniel leapt forward. "Tymvir, Celann! I know this woman. We practically grew up together! I assure you, she's no thrall! She tried to save Tolan under no one's command! These two came rushing in when they heard him scream."

The two armoured men looked at each other, and an understanding seemed to pass between them. Taryn felt relief when the larger man spoke, but it was dashed when he said, "You should leave here."

_/-\\_

 _ **12 First Seed, 4E 202**_

"You folk need to leave."

It was not the first time Eduard had heard the old man say that, and it didn't seem like it would be the last. He was a Nord, with large arms, a thinning head of hair, and a gut of ale sticking out over his belted trousers. His hands were calloused, as though he'd farmed his whole life, and he chewed on a cheap smoking pipe.

The first time the old man had come around to his barn, it had been to check on Eduard and Milos. Of course, his niece, who farmed with him, had given them shelter there. She'd been the one to fill the washbasin with water and provided Eduard with the needle to sew their wounds. The old Nord had at first been polite and respectful of their predicament, but when he discovered that the other wounded man was an Argonian, he quickly became as cold as his homeland.

"I won't be saying it again. You folk need to get out 'fore the army finds you here."

Eduard stood and calmly folded his hands behind his back. Without a poultice or salve, the wound on his midsection was healing aggravatingly slowly. It was quickly deteriorating to an ugly mess, and would add to his collection like a diseased cow to a prize-winning herd, but he was not concerned by it. With his mask on, he could hide the pain it caused him, something the old Nord could not when his eyes glanced to the poorly-sewn wound. But Eduard could do nothing to hide the annoyance in his tone.

"My companion cannot yet move," he stated solemnly, gesturing to the Argonian lying in a heap on a pile of straw. "You condemn him to death if we must leave now."

The old man stopped playing with his pipe and crossed his arms. "I said I wouldn't be repeating myself."

"And yet I will: he will die if he's moved. He's lost too much blood. Without a healer—."

"Healer's too expensive for a gods-damned Argonian. Lizard-kin don't have the same set-up—."

"Sir." The word rolled off Eduard's tongue like a disease. The old man came to full attention. Like the old man coming in to tell them to leave, it was not the first time Eduard had called him thus. At first, it had been tied in with honeyed words and flattering prose, but now it was very much a stiff threat. "Your armies mean nothing to me, whether you support this stupendously asinine war or not. If the Empire comes, I will burn them to ash. If the Stormcloaks come, I will gut them and fling their innards over this barn. And you can be damned sure if you insult my companion once more, I will have something wonderfully creative to do to you, as well. Perhaps feed you to your pigs, or use you as a scarecrow for your crops?" Eduard continued to step forward, until he'd finally driven the old man out of the barn. "Perhaps I will redecorate your home with your lifeblood? Better yet, leave you in the swamp, and let the frostbite spiders have their way with you."

The man tripped and fell on his backside. His teeth clamped on his tongue when his pipe crashed into a puddle. Blood began pouring out of his mouth as he scrambled backward. Eduard didn't stop walking towards him.

"We will leave the moment my companion can walk, but not a second earlier. Call your squabbling armies if you wish. They will only pillage what's left of your land and set themselves on your ward." Eduard spun on his heel and began towards the barn.

The old Nord spat out blood. His hand was raised as if to catch what was dripping. "Fuck ye, Impewiaw 'og!"

Eduard realized they were just parting words, the old man's attempt to get the last word in. He was above that pettiness, and knew the battle ended when the man lost his footing. And his words were especially empty considering he was having such difficulty pronouncing them.

"Aw ye awe cowawds! 'almowe bitches!" He spat another gob of saliva and blood onto the muddy ground. "Ye shouwd be dwawn and quawtewed!"

"You are especially difficult to listen to." Eduard stopped and turned slowly towards the old man. "Would you like to say that again, to my face? Even if I am not an Imperial?"

"Ye awe 'he Empiwe's bitch!"

There was a light film of red blood staining the Nord's teeth that became especially apparent when Eduard lifted him from the ground by his meaty neck. The Nord flailed his legs and blood fountained from his mouth as he struggled for breath.

"A 'true, proud Nord', I see." Eduard tilted his head, watching him, and observing the blood trailing from the old Nord's mouth to Eduard's glove. "One who speaks only when he feels advantageous. One who threatens others and judges by their race, because he thinks his own is superior. Well, I've news for you: your race is a bastardization of my own. Your race is filth. I should be drawn and quartered? I'm both the bitch of the Thalmor and the Empire? And I'm a coward?" He leaned in. The old Nord saw naught but darkness beyond his mask. "You are lucky I've mercy in my heart. If you say another word, if you ever show your face to me again before we're gone, I will decorate the trees with your organs, you slovenly filth. Stay out of our way, and you can get on with your life. But I say again: _we_ _don't move until he's good. And. Ready_."

Eduard dropped the old Nord. His eyes were bulging from his skull, his face nearly blue. Every time he coughed upon the ground he spat up blood drawn from his tongue. And that time, when Eduard strode into the barn, the old man said nothing, but whether it was because he took Eduard's threat to heart or he was simply having too much trouble with all his coughing was never made clear.

The Dragon Priest shut the doors behind him and breathed deeply. The air of livestock and swamp sullied it, but Eduard cared very little. He felt rage towards the man's self-righteous, holier-than-thou looks—his entire attitude. _Hypocrite,_ the Dragon Priest thought to himself, shaking his head.

He sank to the floor, drained by his own performance. His arm was numb from lifting that heavy man. His exposed torso prickled with the chill of the air, which he hadn't noticed until his red-hot fury subsided. His wound still ached.

Eduard heard a half-hearted chuckle at the far corner of the barn. It was throaty and painful, but had improved immensely since Eduard administered his improvised healing. He'd never been any good at such magic.

"Never thought I'd see the day when a Nord gets tossed on his arse for being a racist prick." Milos shifted in his bed of straw, one clawed hand covering his bandaged wound. "Damn near brings tears to the eye."

"Don't get ahead of yourself. He's likely to be back, maybe with a patrol of those Stormcloak fools."

Milos scoffed and gestured his lack of caring. "Let them come," he insisted. "I'll cleave those buggers in two."

"That will be difficult, considering your state and condition."

"You're one to talk."

Eduard exhaled loudly through his mouth. Had the Argonian not been in the room watching him, he would have lifted his mask to rub a hand on his face, but his common urge had to be fought. He still had to get used to his father's mask's presence.

"Are you well?"

The Argonian shifted in the straw. "Another day or two, I suppose. But I'd like to leave earlier—."

"Don't let that fool get to you. We'll stay as long as you need."

"It's not him." Milos sat upwards and grimaced, maw contorting in pain. "Gah! Damn, that's ripe!" Eduard shakily stood and made to help him, but Milos put out a hand. "No need. Going to live through it fine. I mean Taryn. I need to find her."

Eduard approached nonetheless and carefully lowered himself near the bandages he'd torn up, then began wrapping his wound with them. He'd had his midriff exposed to do just that, before that old Nord reared his ugly, brawny head. "We left her in a bit of a state. The Dovahkiin will not be defeated so easily. I'm willing to bet she's on the search for you right now."

"And you," alluded Milos. "She wouldn't just leave you like chopped liver."

"Touching."

The Argonian grinned meekly. "Eduard, one day."

The priest snorted. "One day what?"

"You'll know."

"Let me guess: one day?"

"Perhaps one day soon." Milos turned his attention to the barn doors. "Speaking of which, how about we make our great escape tomorrow night?"

"And go where?"

"Where else?" asked the Argonian. "We stick to the plan: Solitude."

The priest made a sound much like an irritated groan. "Alduin's breath... Fine. Once more we'll steer clear of the Labrynthian. At this point my hopes are dashed to ever return home."

"We'll get you there," promised Milos, "eventually."


	8. Suspicion

Chapter Seven:

Suspicion

 _ **14 First Seed, 4E 202**_

It was hours into the night. A cold wind wafted through the halls of the Palace of the Kings, startling the torches that glowed bright, as though shuddering from the cold. The blue and gold banners displaying the snarling bear fluttered, giving the beast a lively qualityEven the hardy Nord soldiers dressed in the full regalia of Windhelm made mention of the chill, as the hairs on their exposed arms stood on end and gooseflesh prickled.

Though his chamber door was sealed shut, the wind still found its way into Ulfric's room, and his candle wavered on his desk. The room was spacious, with his bed near the centre, a bookshelf nearby a fireplace that bathed the room, and the jarl's back, in a warm gleam. Against the wall right beside his chamber door was his desk, and the man himself, broad-shouldered and fair-haired. The jarl was hunched over papers, poring over reports on the state of the war, finances for his city, notes on enemy movements, and so forth. But for the moment, none of that interested him. Indeed, the only thing that momentarily distracted his blank stare at a piece of sealed parchment was the breeze that flickered his candle and made him shiver.

Ulfric blinked. His eyes stung. He couldn't remember how long it had been since he'd blinked. Possibly before he laid his eyes on Whiterun's unbroken seal. The horse reared upwards with no rider in front of a backdrop of Whiterun's famed palace. The jarl shook his head softly, hoping to clear it, dispel his worries, so he could focus on his hopes that the letter contained the answer he wished.

With the dagger he'd stabbed into his desk earlier, when he'd first entered his chambers, Ulfric cut through the seal. He tried not to make a note of how it cut through the steed's neck. Ulfric cleared his throat and unfolded the parchment in his hands. He recognized Jarl Balgruuf's hand, which had harsher letters than his steward, an Imperial who wrote as though he was gliding through the air. Ulfric always detested letters from the steward, but Balgruuf always made a point to put pen to paper himself when writing back to Ulfric.

Of course, the letter contained all sorts of pleasantries. Balgruuf never forgot formalities, even with the pressure of the war. But the pleasantries were not what Ulfric sought. Neither was the answer Ulfric received from the jarl of Whiterun, the only neutral province in the whole of Skyrim.

 _"I am sorry, Ulfric, but I must stand with and for my people. My Hold will not join this war on either side."_

Ulfric let the letter fall onto his lap and leaned back in his chair. It appeared as though he was watching the shadows dance across the wall, but his mind was elsewhere. In Whiterun.

"I must stand with and for my people."

Ulfric's deep voice echoed against the stone walls. A half-smile appeared on his face, splitting his strong features. In a flash Ulfric leapt up and roared. His chair fell backward onto the stone floor. One of his large hands grabbed a leg of his desk and tossed it aside, away from the door. Papers flew into the air, their shadows cavorting to the breeze sneaking in beneath his door. The jarl flung his dagger into the overturned desk as the last of his rage began to subside. He barely noticed the paper he stood on, with the seal of Whiterun sliced through.

"Who do you take me for, Balgruuf?" Ulfric asked the desk. "A foreigner? A damned elf?! I _am_ your people!"

"I told you Balgruuf would not listen." Galmar Stone-Fist stood in the doorway. Ulfric recognized his voice, and did not bother to face him. His face was still red with anger. "He doesn't intend to support our cause—your rightful claim to the Jagged Crown."

Ulfric pursed his lips and rubbed his hands down his face. "What do you want, Galmar? I asked not to be bothered."

"Soldier's returned from a scouting party up north, after that skirmish with the Empire."

"We already know the result of that."

"Aye, we do. But his company stayed in Winterhold a while to see if the Empire would retaliate." Galmar didn't wait for Ulfric's approval to show the soldier in, but if Ulfric was annoyed by it, he didn't show it. His face was like stone again. "Get in here, captain. Tell Ulfric what you saw."

The man behind Galmar stepped into Ulfric's chambers and removed his helmet. His blond hair was stuck to his forehead with sweat, he looked haggard, and Ulfric was certain he hadn't seen a river to bathe in well over a month. But he recognized the man.

"You were at Helgen," observed the jarl. "In the wagon with me."

The soldier saluted Ulfric with a fist over his heart. The Jarl noticed a wince cross the soldier's features for just a moment. When Ulfric cast his eyes on the man's arm, he noticed crushed leaves (the variety he could not determine) poking out from beneath a bandage wrapped tightly around his bicep. "Ralof of Riverwood, Jarl Ulfric. After Helgen, you gave me a promotion to captain."

"Ah. I remember now." Ulfric stepped towards the two men and clasped his hands behind his back. "Report, Captain Ralof."

Ralof removed his fist from his chest. "Jarl, my men remained near the battleground in Winterhold to see if there would be a retaliation party from the Empire. Instead, we found something far worse."

"If this is another dragon attack—."

"No, Jarl Ulfric. It's possibly... Hard as it is to believe, might be even more perilous." Ralof cleared his throat and tried to forget he'd just interrupted Ulfric Stormcloak, Jarl of Windhelm. "Vampires attacked the Hall of the Vigilant. It's a massacre. As far as we could tell, no survivors."

Galmar had already heard, which was why he didn't balk like Ulfric. The jarl first felt a knot in his stomach, but it quickly disappeared when his annoyance became clear. "Vampires?" the jarl repeated, testing the word on his tongue. "Will wonders never cease? First dragons hearkening the End Times, now Vampires?"

"I ordered my men to keep their distance from the wreckage. We did not arrive in time to save anyone or kill any of those beasts, but we did happen upon a different conflict entirely."

"Go on, man. Tell me."

"We settled on a ridge behind the Hall come noon, and just as we were about to pitch camp, we heard something... unsettling."

_/-\\_

 _ **12 First Seed, 4E 202**_

"You should leave here."

The Dawnguards' steel were still levelled at Taryn and Serana, even with Heniel vouching for them. It seemed to Taryn that their lives might be spared, so long as they left. But in the murkiness of the underground tower, Taryn felt something ominous. These men—these Dawnguard—had clearly run into opposition since Taryn escaped with Serana. Obviously they'd forged ahead of their comrades to scout the area. Vampires yet remained in the depths of the cavern. Or had they all been eliminated by these strangely-garbed warriors?

"Love to," said Taryn, "but the Vampires took some things of mine when I got dragged in here. Need to grab my things."

One of the armoured men relaxed. He plucked his helm from off his head and tucked it under his arm, though he hadn't fastened his axe on his belt. His chocolate hair, speckled with grey, was plastered to his head by sweat. "Dragged, you say?"

"Yeah."

"Tell me, how did you escape this nest?"

In moments, she'd relayed the entire story—her escape from the cells, killing Vampires along the way, the discovery of an empty tomb that the Vampires she assumed were in charge gawked at in disbelief, and her subsequent rescue thanks to a dark-haired mage named Serana. The aforementioned woman watched as Taryn weaved her story. Had she not known parts of it were lies, Serana would have been hard-pressed to find any holes in the story whatsoever. But with the Dawnguards' obvious hostility towards Serana's kind, Taryn was eager to keep the woman out of harm's way by deflecting suspicion from her. Indeed, Taryn even showed the soldiers the bite mark on her neck, explaining that a Vampire had managed to suck her blood when Serana came along and burnt it to ash.

"Afterward," she concluded, "Serana took me to Dawnstar. I returned to try to find my friends' tracks, and my things. I'm sure you can imagine all my hard work collecting coin would be a terrible waste, otherwise."

The Nord man snorted, but alongside his partner, he too visibly relaxed. "Damn mercenary. No honour, only came for her damned coin."

"Must be a tidy sum to risk returning," the Breton man put in (for Taryn realized the man who'd de-helmed himself was thus).

The Imperial shrugged nonchalantly. "Felt better about my chances with a mage around."

The Breton man smirked, lips splitting into a grin. "You're lucky. I think Tymvir and I found your belongings. Even brought it back for you."

"But first..." The Nord man drew himself up. While relaxed, Taryn saw the way he gripped his sword; ready to strike at the first sign of trouble. She noticed how the light flickered off his polished steel, doused in fresh Vampire blood. "Tell me what's inside the bag."

"Most of the usual: coin purse, bedroll, rope, tarp and tentpoles. With any luck those idiots would have kept my bow and arrows. You know how much those cost, I presume?" Her question was pointed towards the womer, who glanced at the bow in her hands.

"Standard, aye," stated Tymvir. "What's so special about that bag, then?"

"It's also got a soul gem at the bottom that means a lot to me, so I'd rather have it. Also, I'd rather not have to start from scratch. With the war on, it's hard enough to find work as it is."

The Breton man's eyebrows shot up. "Well, there you have it, Tymvir. You can stop the interrogation."

"You're letting them off too easily, Celann. She still could be—."

"I've heard enough. Tymvir, you've trainees to think about. Attack everyone with scrutiny and they'll know no better."

Finally, the Nord's shoulders slumped, and his gigantic claymore found its place sheathed on his back. Tymvir pulled off his helmet, brows knit tightly as he frowned. His eyes were blue, like Heimdall's, though his hair was dark, almost uncharacteristically for a Nord, but it suited him well. As did the goatee that had begun to evolve into a beard.

"You grew up together, Heniel?" asked the Breton as he reached around the corner through the passageway he and Tymvir had just come through to pluck Tayrn's bag (she beamed at the sight of it) from the ground.

"That's inaccurate, I apologize." From the way the Bosmeri woman's eyebrows shot upward, Taryn assumed Heniel was being his usual disagreeable self. "She raised me, more like."

Taryn scoffed at that. "Heniel, you did a fine job yourself these past years. In the middle of it again, I see."

"Speak for yourself! You just keep finding your way into trouble," the young man shot back. "What were you even doing at the Hall of the Vigilant?"

"Like I said: shelter. I was taking a friend home. Storm slowed us down."

"I remember the storm. Felt like my bollocks were going to fall off."

Behind her, Taryn heard the Bosmeri woman mumble, "Would have explained how high your voice is, milk-drinker," and Taryn had to force herself to suppress a giggle. Heniel was a late bloomer.

Taryn nearly tried to shrug off the pack she'd brought, but realized it was outside and instead happily slipped her old one on. _Much better,_ she thought.

"What happened that made you leave Anvil?"

She felt her stomach churn at Heniel's inquiry. A hundred times she said she'd never leave Anvil, whether it was because of her desire to see the children at the orphanage safe, or simply because she sometimes felt stuck there, it didn't matter. Heniel had known her to be a focal point in the port city. The sailors knew her, taught her all they knew. Some of the young ones—new to the life, and to the port—would try to make a move. Heniel knew of only one who was able to boast of even a peck on the cheek, but that had immediately been followed by a swift right hook. The soldiers took her for a troublemaker who could have been someone better. The townspeople didn't really have any qualms against her, especially since they would occasionally offer her odd jobs to give her some work.

Taryn was synonymous with Anvil. Heniel had debated many times on whether he should just give up and return, because she would be waiting there, with all his friends, children he grew up with. And Heniel? Now he was a young man with his mentor's blood soaking his robes.

"Why aren't you in High Rock?" Taryn retorted, a bit more sharply than she had meant. She amended, "I thought you'd made it. But you're in Skyrim, a man of the cloth."

"Circumstances," replied Heniel, shrinking. "Didn't have much of a choice."

"Sorry to hear that." Taryn glanced Serana's way and noticed how Serana hadn't yet taken her eyes off of the Nord named Tymvir. She elbowed Serana gently, finally breaking the woman's trance. "Well, shall we get going? I need to meet with Milos and Eduard, make sure they're all right."

"Milos?" Heniel beamed. "I remember him! He's still alive? And in Skyrim?"

"Won't be alive much longer in Skyrim if this war keeps going on," admitted Taryn begrudgingly. "Too many damned racists running amok. Heniel, a pleasure to see you again. Good luck with the whole... Vigil, thing. Send me a letter or two."

"Wait!" the young man exclaimed. "Taryn, please, I beg you, let me ride with you!"

"Don't have a horse," she replied coldly. "Heniel, what about Tolan?"

"And us, boy?" Tymvir asked, obviously annoyed.

Heniel whirled on the man three heads taller than himself. "With Tolan gone, I've got nothing again. The man lifted me from the gutter I was in and taught me all he could. And the Dawnguard? You even hear the name? You'll be focusing on Vampires, creatures of the night. What about the ill? The diseased? I'll not follow a bunch of bone-headed fighters who only know how to burn and kill!"

"You have the wrong impression, Heniel," Celann interjected. "Tymvir and I were both Vigilants before we joined the Dawnguard."

"Now you're radicals."

"Watch your tongue, boy," snarled Agmaer (who was little more than a boy himself).

Taryn stepped towards the young Breton and clapped a hand on his shoulder. Her grip was tight, damn near uncomfortable to Heniel, and it got his attention.

"Heniel," Taryn said icily, "are you trying to piss everyone off in this chamber, or is this just part of your newfound charm?"

"I'm just—." A hard glare from the Imperial later, and Heniel had no more words.

"Tolan is dead," the Imperial recited slowly. "Unfortunately, nothing can bring him back. Nothing can bring back the dead at the Hall of the Vigilant, either. Taking it out on others is no way to act. Way I see it, maybe right now the Dawnguard should exist. If Vampires are burrowing out of their hiding spots to feast on the blood of this war, there ought to be people to defend those who can't defend themselves. Not soldiers—guardians." Her last words were directed towards Tymvir and Celann, who both avoided her gaze. "Just like the Vigil were. You ought to carry that with you, see what good you can do."

The Breton shrugged off Taryn's hand from his shoulder. "Pox on it. I want to step away from this. Be with you again, like the old days."

Taryn bit her lip. She'd begun to fiddle with the fletching of her arrows, hanging in her quiver at her waist. "The old days are gone. I'm sorry, but nothing can bring them back."

"But—!"

"Shh!" Tymvir was tense, muscles coiled as though ready to spring into action at a moment's notice. Celann had his axe raised. "I hear... growling."

Taryn glanced back at Serana for confirmation. At first the Vampire just met her eyes, not knowing what the Imperial was silently asking. Then she nodded when she realized Taryn's senses were dulled in her mortal form.

Tymvir was correct. Yes, there were noises. They bounced off the stone walls like a child's ball against the stone battlements of Solitude. Claws tapped against the rubble, the sound of snuffling and snarling reverberating around the enclosed cavern. How long had they been there? Had they only just arrived?

A howl tore through the still silence, which was quickly joined by a roar. Oh, Taryn knew that roar. So did Serana, though it had been decades since she'd last heard it clearly.

"Gargoyles," the Vampire whispered.

Tymvir looked over his shoulder at her, then shoved his helmet on and drew his blade from his back. "Agmaer, I need your shield up front. Beleval, get those three out of here. Celann, step back and help her."

"And me, sir?" asked the Nord woman, who hadn't spoken yet.

"Tilde, shield up here. I'm with you."

"Wait, I can help!" Heniel exclaimed. "I can use magic!"

"Lots of good that'll do at our back, milk-drinker," snapped Agmaer. "Lots of good that magic was when Tolan got killed."

Heniel acted too quickly for Taryn to stop him. In a flash, Heniel grabbed the collar of Agmaer's lamellar armour and struck him with his left fist. Blood spurted from Agmaer's nose and down the front of his armour. Heniel yelled ravenously when he followed up his strike with a right hook in Agmaer's mouth. Taryn grabbed Heniel from behind and locked her arms around his shoulders to stop him. Blood ran down Heniel's fists. A knuckle or two on his right hand sported a gash, thanks to Agmaer's teeth. The Nord threw himself at Heniel, trapped by Taryn, as Celann missed a grab for his arm.

Taryn tossed Heniel aside and clotheslined Agmaer. The Nord's feet flew in the air, higher than his head, and smashed against the cobbled stone of the watchtower surrounded by the cavern. The only thing that protected the Nord's head was his light helmet, but he was dazed on the ground. Taryn's own arm was jarring, thanks to the Nord's weight.

Celann grabbed the Nord and hefted him to his feet, draping the younger man's arm over his shoulders. Tymvir shouted, "You fucking idiots! Get out of here now!"

A guttural, unnatural roar echoed through the cavern. The clicking increased pace, the stomping not far behind. Taryn and Serana stooped to grab Heniel by his robes and drag him from the tower. They hurried down the steps, Beleval watching their flank while Celann led the way with Agmaer. One shield down, Taryn felt as though the two far behind them had their work cut out for them.

They emerged into the sun, a light snowfall obscuring the obsidian steps they descended from. Taryn slipped a couple times and was only saved thanks to a convenient rock she could find purchase on. The horses whinnied below, clearly distraught by the previous sounds. _So the horses heard those things,_ Taryn observed.

Roars exploded from the mouth of the cavern, escaping into the voided north. Heniel had finally cooled off and shoved the two women off of him to walk by himself. Agmaer slumped against a horse's flank. Celann didn't even bother start telling the two off; his weapon was out and at the ready.

Only a couple of minutes later Tymvir and Tilde appeared. Tilde slipped down the steps to safety while Tymvir was tossed several yards towards the horses, and landed awkwardly on his side, helm flying off his head. He shouted painfully, lips curled, showing off a light film of blood on his teeth.

"Mount up!" shouted Celann as he all but threw Agmaer onto a saddle.

Serana grabbed Taryn's discarded pack and raced to a horse. Tilde slowly rose to her feet and limped towards Tymvir. In a flash, Taryn had raced towards the two and stood facing the mouth of the cave.

A giant, winged creature resembling a bat leapt out of the shadows and into the noonday sun, but it didn't seem to bother the thrall. It screeched and snarled, wings beating in the cold, carrying its body towards Tymvir.

Taryn had faced them before. Back when she had Serana on her back, Taryn was unlucky enough to disturb their stone forms. So she knew how to fight them.

"Beleval!" Taryn shouted. "Hit that thing with as many arrows as you've got! Don't let it get close!"

A second leapt from the shadows. Taryn grabbed her bow and nocked an arrow with a familiar grace, now that she was reunited with her weapon. In a matter of moments, she and Beleval had brought the gargoyles down to the powdered ground, pockmarked with arrows. But it hardly slowed them down. The creatures didn't hesitate. The first sprinted towards Tymvir and Tilde while the second made for the horses. Their mounts bucked and whinnied their terror. Celann had unfastened most from the hitching post, and in a whirlwind of snow Agmaer's mount flung forwards to escape.

The gargoyle was close to Tymvir and Tilde by the time Taryn reached them with Dragonbane drawn, lightning crackling against steel. The gargoyle raised its paw to strike, savouring the impending kill, but Tilde roared and barrelled into the beast, knocking it away from her superior officer. The paw instead tore into Tilde's armour, drawing blood and a cry of pain from Tilde. Taryn saw the gargoyle's stony grey skin mend its wounds when it did.

Tilde pushed it far enough that Taryn could leap from an outcropping of rock and onto its back, plunging her sword into its body in the small space between its neck and collarbone. The gargoyle screeched and flared its wings, bucking and twisting to get Taryn off. It only succeeded in digging Dragonbane deeper into its flesh. Its mouth frothed with spittle, flecks of blood spraying onto Tilde, but its grip released the Nord woman. Undeterred, Tilde let out a war cry and buried her axe deep into the monster's gut, again and again. The gargoyle crumpled, weakly crying out, reaching for Taryn to try to peel her off like a sweaty shirt, until its hands dropped, and the beast lay prone on its knees.

Taryn yanked Dragonbane from the gargoyle before its flesh turned to stone. When the entirety of its body was hardened, Tilde shoved it against the obsidian stones of the mountain, and the body fractured and split in a loud crash.

Elsewhere, the second gargoyle had fallen to arrows and magicka. Its stone visage of death was shattered by an ice spike Heniel cast at its chest. The warriors took a moment to catch their breath.

"Anyone see which way Agmaer's blasted beast went off to?" Taryn heard Celann yell, and there was a collective silence in answer. The Breton man stomped off, following frenzied tracks, past Beleval, who he discreetly patted on the shoulder.

"Commander?" Tilde dragged her feet towards Tymvir, bleeding out on the snow. She ignored her own wounds, severe enough that Taryn stepped in.

"Hold it, before you fall on your head." From her backpack, Taryn procured a healing potion and handed it to Tilde. The Nord observed the substance within the vial with trepidation, clearly hesitant towards it. "Oh, it's just a healing potion. I promise it won't make you sick for the next week. Now drink it while I check on your fearless leader."

By the time Tilde had yanked out the stopper with a resonant pop, Tymvir, laying on his back thanks to Taryn, managed to spit, "Don't take anything from them until we know they're allies."

"Allies?" Taryn scoffed. "If you keep running around Skyrim refusing help from people because you can't tell the difference between an 'ally' and somebody who just doesn't like watching idiots bleed out on the snow, then you won't be getting very far, will you?"

Serana was, of course, hovering closer to those who weren't wounded. Taryn didn't know how the Vampire might feel around the others, wounded or not, considering one of Serana's first interactions was to puncture Taryn's neck and take a long overdue drink, but even surrounded by the blood in the tower within the cavern she'd seemed to be all right. It made Taryn wonder if Aldren would have behaved the same, or in a similar fashion. She imagined he would have to, as leader of the Dark Brotherhood.

(Which, by the way, still had her looking over her shoulder, wondering if she'd annoyed someone enough that they deigned to send the infamous guild after her... again.)

As though summoned by Taryn's thoughts, Serana appeared beside Taryn and knelt beside Tymvir with a fresh roll of bandages. Taryn looked over her shoulder to glance at Heniel and Beleval. The womer had bandages in her hands and was tending to a scratch on Heniel's arm, though Heniel was making a fuss about it.

Tilde knocked the vial of red liquid back and drained it in a single gulp. Her face scrunched when the bitterness hit her, but she handed the vial back to Taryn with a quiet word of thanks. Tymvir was keeping his eye on the horizon, his jaw stubbornly set while Serana checked over his wounds.

"You might have to take off the armour," stated the Vampire. "There's bruising and a few cuts. Your ribs might be broken."

Tymvir scowled. "I'm not taking my armour off. This is no place to sit and tend to our wounds! There could be more of those creatures within."

Serana forced herself into Tymvir's field of vision wearing a frown not unlike his own. "Your gallivanting within woke them up. No more are coming thanks to their death throes. And no one else knows about the fallen Vigilant yet. I think we're safe."

"No." Tymvir obstinately used his ebony greatsword to help him stand. His teeth were clenched, and by the way he wavered Taryn could tell his head was spinning, but he didn't stop until he was standing as straight as he could. His leaning against his sword did nothing to abate Tilde's worry. She stepped towards him to help, but he waved her off. "We need to find somewhere safe. It's too open here. The Empire and the Stormcloaks just had a battle nearby, so I wouldn't be surprised if any were still lurking about."

"Lurking or not, you can barely stand by yourself."

"Put me on a horse and we'll be done with it. Winterhold isn't so far. Can get bandaged up by your fellow mages."

If it were possible for Vampires to warm whatever pallor was left in their cheeks, Serana did just that. Taryn saw Serana become uncomfortable and weaved in an extra lie.

"Serana's self-taught," Taryn explained. "Wouldn't know the mages of the College any better than you would."

His mouth was in a firm line. "Then maybe the innkeep can help. But nothing will be done here."

"Tymvir!" Celann was leading Agmaer's steed in by the bridle, the young man saddled firmly atop the panting, frothing horse. "What do you suppose?"

Tilde slid under Tymvir's arm to support him despite his weakened protesting. "Winterhold, sir. Gonna get patched up then report back to Fort Dawnguard," she responded in his stead.

Heniel had long since mounted his beast and led a second towards Taryn and Serana. "I'll not be joining you. Have to warn any other Vigilant I can find about this attack. It won't be for another few days when word finally reaches the far corners of Skyrim about this massacre." He tossed the reigns to Taryn. She caught them while flinching out of the way. A terrible throw, though Heniel didn't seem bothered. "I'm warning the jarls to the west."

"Those are our horses, you know," muttered Beleval behind him.

"And I'll return them, but the Dawnguard should be the first to agree that this danger needs to be addressed before we're taken by surprise and grabbed by the bullocks."

"And I suppose this is also your fancy way of stubbornly following Serana and I west?" prodded the Imperial.

"Aye," the young man answered bluntly, and honestly.

"Then we're borrowing your horses for a while, Sir Tymvir. Promise to return them in the condition we found them. Would you like a deposit?"

Sneering, Tymvir snapped, "Just get going, mercenary. Don't think I'm not still tempted to take you to the fort and get more answers out of you."

"A gentleman and a charmer. Serana, did you hear him? He wilts my heart with our parting." Taryn flashed Tymvir a spirited grin and wrangled herself into the horse's tack. When she'd finally found her perch in the saddle, Taryn helped Serana clamber up the spotted grey mare and find a seat behind her. "Get your wounds looked at. And your head. You seem to be suffering from a condition I call 'Nordic Stupidity'. Tilde appears immune though, thankfully."

Tilde pursed her lips as Tymvir's lip curled away from his teeth, but no more words were exchanged between them. Taryn led the mare towards Heniel, who had already begun to depart, and began to ride alongside him.

"Heniel," she said, "you can stick with us for a while, but I assure you this won't be a permanent solution."

"Why so eager to be rid of me?"

"Eager to keep you safe. I've made too many enemies to be seen with you and expect you'll live a long life before you make your way to Aetherius."

Serana snorted behind Taryn. " _Now_ you tell me..."

"Oh, hush. You're wont to refuse help. Besides, something tells me you've not ridden a horse before."

"How can you tell?"

"You're stiff as a board. Loosen up. Your buttocks might not survive the journey if you mount up with a stick up your ass."

Celann waved to the trio briefly as they left. They hardly looked back, but Celann wasn't concerned. Instead, he hurried to Tymvir and helped him limp to the horses. The younger man was spitting up gobs of saliva with traces of blood, but it didn't appear too serious quite yet.

"We should get you to the mages, see if they can help," offered the Breton. "Maybe we should have asked that Serana woman if she could heal you—."

"Don't need their help, Celann," snapped Tymvir.

Celann frowned at the Nord. "Tymvir, control your temper. You were on the warpath with those two."

"And you did not suspect them near enough. That woman with the scar was the one Tolan mentioned. She even admitted to being here! Didn't deny it at all!"

"And she also explained her reason for being here, as well as the body in that pool further in, the one pinned beneath the portcullis... Tymvir, what about that crypt she mentioned? We even found those severed fingers. You tell me someone who could tell a story that elaborate and have every detail conveniently placed. She's a woman trying to find her friends. You ought to show some respect."

Tymvir snorted dismissively, but he said no more on the subject. "Let's get out of here. Sooner the better. Don't know how many more of those creatures are coming, and we're ill-equipped to deal with them now."

"Agreed."

_/-\\_

 _ **14 First Seed, 4E 202**_

"Vampires."

Ulfric tested the word on his tongue like an ale or a wine at a feast, letting it roll around for a time before he slumped back in his chair, his face set in stone. He, Ralof, and Galmar had since found seats in the jarl's chambers near the fire. His steward had briefly entered during Ralof's tale to bring an assortment of meats, cheeses, and a loaf of bread Galmar demanded. Drinks were also provided, though the mead was Honningbrew from Whiterun, not the Black Briar Mead he preferred. It was a difficult acquisition since the Empire received Riften. Galmar watched his leader closely while munching on some cheese impaled on his knife. Ralof had long since done away with the bread loaf, hunger finally giving way.

Ulfric's mead sloshed around in his tankard. He stared into the fire so deeply he thought he could peer at Oblivion through its flames.

"Vampires," he said again.

"Yes, Jarl Ulfric," replied Ralof. "I'm sure of it. Those soldiers talked about the growing threat, and, well, after seeing the Hall of the Vigilant for myself..."

"And what would you suggest, captain?" asked Ulfric. "First dragons, now Vampires. Will wonders never cease?"

Ralof cleared his throat and wiped some crumbs from the side of his mouth. "Jarl Ulfric, I suggest we investigate the issue."

Galmar snorted, stuffed the rest of the cheese into his mouth, then grabbed a shaving of meat from the platter. "How do you propose?" mocked the Nord. "Another truce with those Imperial cowards? Crawl to them, beg for help against a threat that may not even affect us?"

"No, but—."

"Captain Ralof." The jarl silenced both men with his baritone. "Unless these creatures affect us directly, we will not pursue this. We've lost no men to this... attack."

"And the Vigilant, Jarl Ulfric? What about them?"

"I am busy fighting for the people of Skyrim who plow fields for a harvest, who hammer metals fine and crude for coin, who bleed and die for this province. I have enough on my plate. Religious orders pursuing that which goes bump in the night do not concern me. They can fend for themselves until the people who they protect are safe. They would understand." Ulfric stood and chugged back the last of his mead, savouring every last drop. "Captain Ralof, once more: you mentioned two women there, obviously not part of the mercenary band. Describe them."

Ralof nodded. "Certainly, Jarl. They were both slight of frame, both had dark hair. Only one was far more pale than the other and wore a hood and cloak. The other just a mantle for the cold, but that one had a scar on her face."

Galmar shared a look with Ulfric. "Like this?" asked the Nord, and he traced his finger over his eye, then sharply down over his mouth and chin.

"We were too far to see clearly," admitted Ralof, "but I think that's accurate, yes."

"An Imperial?"

"The one with the scar, aye. The other, not sure. Nord, maybe."

Ulfric turned his back on the two and stared into the fire as he leaned against the fireplace. After a long moment of silence, with only the popping of the flames and Galmar's chewing, Ulfric finally sighed and set his tankard on the table.

"Ralof, get cleaned up, sleep, then report to me tomorrow morning. I have a special assignment for you."

"Aye, sir." Ralof leapt to his feet, smacked his fist over his breast, then hurried from the room. Galmar watched him until the door shut firmly.

"I recognize that girl, Ulfric."

"Aye, so do I. She's the one who the Greybeards used to summon me to High Hrothgar."

"One and the same. Do you think...?"

Ulfric turned to face his second-in-command. "The Nord woman has to be the Dragonborn. Both of them have hidden, kept themselves from the events of the world to disguise her birthright... And that little Imperial girl keeps her from helping her people win this accursed war."

"Do you suggest we hunt them down? Show that Imperial the error of her ways?"

"No. No, I want to incite fury. If they will not act, we will make them. Or we will gather more to our cause. Either way, it will force the Empire's hand. How would they react knowing that our living legend was on the side of Skyrim?"

"And how would we do that without the Dragonborn? She was disguised at the talks. Went under an Imperial name, too."

"Aye, but no one else knows. Not outside of the Blades, the Greybeards, Tullius, and myself. Of course, you and Legate Rikke as well. But you've heard the rumours. The great Dragonborn, saviour of the Nirn, devourer of souls. All think him to be a man who drank with the Tongues, who sang with the heroes of old, and struck down Alduin with a single, mighty blow."

"So, Ralof is meant to be Dragonborn?"

Ulfric smiled. "If our real Dragonborn doesn't wish to partake in the struggle of her people, then we will provide Skyrim with a Dragonborn dedicated to them. Then, either the Dragonborn will be forced to act and reveal herself, or our impostor will keep up appearances and our numbers will swell far beyond the Empire's."

Galmar stabbed another piece of cheese with his knife and began waving it around as he talked. "But Jarl Ulfric, what would revealing the Dragonborn accomplish? It would make us look like frauds."

"The Dragonborn wishes to live a quiet life, therefore, she will reveal herself in private. Ask us to stop using her as war propaganda. But she's a Nord. We'll show her our struggle, and her heart will bleed for her home. She'll join us."

"And if she doesn't?"

"Then we stop showing our Dragonborn, take her into the countryside to a nice cottage away from the fighting... then burn it down and blame the Empire. A Nord's fury is unmatched, and the loss of their Dragonborn? The people of Skyrim wouldn't stand for it. All Ralof must do is play his part and we'll have our numbers swelling in no time at all."

Galmar bit into his impaled cheese. "And the Imperial girl?"

"If the Dragonborn arrives with her in tow, give her an in-depth tour of the arena."

Ulfric's right hand man stood, face split in a hideous grin. "Oh, that'll be my pleasure, Jarl Ulfric."


	9. Death Wish

Chapter Eight:

Death Wish

 _ **14 First Seed, 4E 202**_

The sun had only just dipped beneath the horizon when two horses and three riders entered Morthal's city proper. A splash of orange and red lingered in the sky, but did not provide light as well as the torches being lit by the soldiers patrolling the innards of the city, who watched as the travellers passed with leering eyes and suspicious gazes. The boy astride the first horse, a bay, narrowed his eyes indignantly at the blatant looks. Of the two women riding the speckled grey, the one leading kept her eyes firmly on the marsh ahead, while the other buried her face in the other's back, hiding herself from the harsh eyes of the Nords.

Some citizens were gathered outside of the jarl's home shouting obscurities, but at the first sign of strangers they bit their tongues, bowed their heads and returned from whence they'd come. The Breton boy's mount sank suddenly into a patch of mud and bucked. The boy barely managed to steady himself and grab hold of the reigns before the second rider leapt from her saddle and hurried to his aid.

"Shh, shh..." she cooed, and tried to help the bay to calm. "Here you go, let me see..."

She managed to coax its hoof from the mud and help it around the patch of mud until it followed her own horse. Wet mud clung to her mantle, and she seemed to notice and lament it for a moment.

"Heniel," Taryn called, whistled and jerked her head. The boy leapt down from his saddle and approached her while attempting to tread on solid ground. The air was humid and the mist thick in the swampland. "I'll stable the horses. You take Serana, dip into my bag and grab some coin. Get us some rooms, hot water, and some food, aye?"

The Breton boy nodded and did as he was asked wordlessly, except to coax Serana down from the horse. It might have been swampland, but it was Skyrim, and the chill of the night was settling in. Taryn saw the breath of the horses more clearly than her own as she grabbed the reigns of both beasts and led them to the stables behind the inn. She noticed Serana cast a tepid glance her way before she became hidden by the building.

"Poor girl's never ridden a horse before..." Taryn's mind wandered back to the previous nights. As she disassembled the tack and grabbed their valuables, she remembered how Serana had ached the entire night because she hadn't listened to Taryn's advice about riding horses.

 _"Well, I've never had the need to!"_ Serana had hissed at the Imperial.

And Taryn had smirked in response. _"Sorry to disappoint, but we have a friend now who has no idea why you've had no need. Listen to me next time and you won't be uncomfortable."_

Taryn's fingers raked through the manes of hair on the horses' heads before she spotted a brush in the stables. She stepped over to the windowsill where it was placed, lifted it, and turned to see a small girl admiring the beasts. She was a pretty little thing with dark hair and bright eyes, and a homemade dress with sewn patchwork for the rips and tears that had made themselves known with play. The girl grinned widely at Taryn, dimples prominent on her cheeks.

"Hello there," she greeted politely.

Taryn smiled in return. "Hello to you too," she responded. "You like horses?"

"I love horses," the girl replied. "We don't have many here at home. Da says we haven't got much to plant, so we don't need a plow and we don't need ponies either. So all the horses I see are part of the army or from travellers." She smiled again, folded her hands behind her back and rocked back and forth on the balls of her feet. "What're they're names?"

"I'm afraid I've borrowed the horses from some friends. They have no names I know of."

"Can I name them?"

Taryn mock bowed to the little girl. "But of course, my lady. I'm sure my friends will have no issue with such a request."

She blushed, but curtsied playfully in response, and then she approached the bay. "... I like Appleseed for you." She turned to the speckled grey mare. "And you..." She checked the horse's underside. "... Wilderqueen, like in the tales from the Wood Elves."

"And may I ask the name of the lady who names these horses?" asked Taryn.

She beamed. "Helgi, daughter of Hroggar."

"Well met Helgi, daughter of Hroggar. I'm Taryn."

The girl's smile slowly faded as she watched the Imperial. Taryn tried to reassure her with a gentle grin. "You'll keep the names, won't you?"

"Of course I will. Can't keep calling them both Horse. They'll get confused otherwise. Appleseed and Wilderqueen thank you from the bottom of their hearts, my lady Helgi."

That seemed to bring the child's smile back. "Will you be staying long?" she asked.

"We'll see. I may stay for a bit of extra work before we move on. I need to make sure my friends don't starve."

"Then... if you stay... would you play hide and seek with me tomorrow night?"

"Will the other children not play with you?"

"They used to, but lately..."

Taryn saw she'd touched on a sore subject. "Say no more. If I stay tomorrow night, I promise I'll play with you."

"Truly?"

"Cross my heart. But I warn you, I'm an excellent hider."

"Then I'll hide and you can find me!"

"Very well." Taryn began brushing the horses. "Now, you'd better get home before it gets too dark out. Your da must be worried."

She'd only taken her eyes off the girl for a moment, but when she looked back, wondering if Helgi had heard her, the girl was gone. _Quiet little thing,_ thought Taryn with a shrug, and resumed brushing the horses.

When the horses were groomed, fed, and watered, Taryn shouldered the last of the luggage and left the stables with the gate closed behind her. She circled the building to return to the front of the inn, carefully watching for patches of mud that were deeper than they seemed, and quickened her pace as she finally found the rickety wooden pathway that had been sturdily built over the marsh. She felt as though it looked the inn was leaning a bit.

She glanced over her shoulder to a pile of debris burned away beside the inn, charred black from flame. It looked similar to the crumpled ruin the Hall of the Vigilant had become, and oddly enough, it looked recent. Taryn shook her head and entered the inn before she became too curious and decided to investigate. The night was too cold to poke around the ashes, and it seemed as though it would be raining soon.

There was a muddy trail of footprints at the door and through the inn, though a straw mat seemed to offer guests a way to help reduce the amount. Taryn rubbed the soles of her boots against the mat and proceeded within. The hearth was warm and burning brightly, illuminating the room. Some torches hung on the wall in their sconces alight with fire to chase away the darkness in the corners of the hall. There was a goose being cooked over the fire by the innkeeper, a stern-looking Redguard woman, while an orc dressed in simple fineries watched from afar, stringing the lute on his lap and leaning back in his chair. The inn was practically deserted.

"Welcome to the Moorside Inn," called the Redguard from over the fire. "You the third person been paid for?"

"If you mean the third of a Breton boy and a Nord woman, aye, that'd be me."

She released the turnspit and gestured for Taryn to follow. Wiping her boots once more on the mat for good measure, Taryn followed the woman to the two rooms that had been purchased for the three tenants, thanked her, and began to enter the doorway of the one with sounds from within.

"A moment," said the innkeep, stopping Taryn. The Imperial regarded the woman attentively. "That house, the burned one, you saw it?"

"Yes."

"Take care to stay away from it. Those ashes are recent. The folk here wouldn't take kindly to someone sifting through them, snooping on our business."

"What happened?"

A melancholy look settled on the woman's features. "... Tragedy. The bodies will finally be buried tomorrow. Just keep away from the house."

Taryn smiled weakly, nodded, then entered the doorway when the innkeep returned to spit-roasting the goose.

Heniel was seated cross-legged on the floor, palms out towards the fire. He rubbed his fingers a couple of times, breathed on them, then extended his palms once more. Most of his clothing was thin, and it probably didn't help that most of his belongings had been inside the hall when it burned down. It wasn't ideal to be travelling in northern Skyrim wearing thin clothes.

Serana, meantime, had settled into the room and picked up a book at the bedside, but it seemed it was boring so she'd placed it back half-open. The moment she saw Taryn enter she stood and crossed her arms, though Taryn had long deduced it wasn't out of anger or frustration of any sort. It was just a habit.

"You took your time," she mused as Heniel leapt up to help Taryn with the bags. "Manage to get into more trouble?"

"Surprisingly, no. Didn't piss anyone off, didn't go poking my nose into strange things, and only spoke with a little girl who gave our horses names. Appleseed and Wilderqueen, by the way."

"Childish names..." mumbled Heniel as he tossed a saddlebag into the corner. "I hope you don't plan on keeping those?"

"This coming from the boy who wanted to name his stuffed unicorn Star-chaser."

The Breton turned red and began sifting through the contents of one of the saddlebags. He didn't converse again until he'd found a thin blanket and wound it tightly around himself.

"Anyhow," continued the boy, "we should just stay the night and bugger off in the morning. This place doesn't feel right."

"You got a talking-to by the innkeep as well, I assume?" Taryn asked the two.

Serana nodded, casting a look at the door beyond Taryn. "These people like strangers about as much as I like bugs. It might be best if we leave straight in the morning."

"We'll see," said Taryn, "but we have horses here that need to be fed and watered and stabled if we stay in a city or a village, not just ourselves. I'd feel better staying another day just to rest and gather some more coin. I've passed around Morthal before and seen their lumber mill. I can get something for that."

"So what are we to do?" Heniel asked.

Taryn ruffled his hair reflexively. She'd done it a thousand times to him before, and reuniting with the young man seemed to bring out that side of her she'd left behind in Anvil. "Just stay out of trouble. People don't mind us here, but don't step on any toes. No magic, no talk of Vampires, no poking around where your nose doesn't belong."

"Why no magic?"

"Because we're surrounded by Nords who leer to the east, rubs their hands together and disdainfully mumble about mages under their breath. Best if we don't get kicked out of the establishment."

"Nords..." grumbled Heniel, then glanced over his shoulder to Serana. "No offence."

Serana smirked and fixed her gaze on the fire. "Did you want any help tomorrow?"

The Imperial shrugged. "If I find work and you wish to help, I won't stop you. Heniel, did you ask for food and hot water?"

"Food, yes."

"And water?"

"... It may have slipped my mind."

Taryn clicked her tongue, removed her coin purse from Heniel's possession and exited the room. Heniel blushed and Serana smirked again, this time at the boy.

"Must be nice to be reunited with your boyhood crush."

The boy gasped, flustered, and floundered in his blanket for a moment. "S-She...! That's not...! You k-keep to yourself, Nord!"

"I'm literally gone for five seconds and you two are at it," growled Taryn as she slipped inside the room again. "Heniel, get to your room and bathe. You smell like a skeever."

The Breton settled a dark and indignant glare on Serana, then spun on his heel, grabbed his bag and marched out of the room. Taryn bit the inside of her cheek as she watched him go.

"I swear," said Taryn, "it's been years, but he's exactly the same. Nothing's changed."

Serana sat carefully on the bed in an effort to avoid any straw poking out from the mattress. Her red-orange eyes found the book she'd become bored with. "What was it like?" the Nord asked.

Taryn was scratching the back of her head when she replied, "Huh?"

"The place you grew up. It must have been difficult with your..." Serana bit her lip, hoping that Taryn understood her trailing sentence.

But it went over her head. "Come again?"

"Your..." Serana made a gesture in hopes Taryn would catch on.

"My charm?"

The Vampire rolled her eyes. " _Lycanthropy_!" she hissed, hopefully quiet enough the walls wouldn't hear.

"Oh. Right. That." Taryn stopped. "Come to think of it, when's that supposed to happen next...?"

"Don't change the subject," chastised Serana as Taryn began counting on her fingers. "Earlier, Heniel told the Dawnguard you'd raised him."

"Practically," answered Taryn a bit gruffly. "I was older and I showed him how to survive. That was that."

"There has to be more to it."

Taryn stopped what she was doing and crossed her arms. Her cheerful smile was replaced by a stern glare. "Of course there's more. Of course I could go into detail about it. But it was a terrible experience in my life and I would like it to forever remain in the past. Dredging it back up benefits no one. And so you know, no, I wasn't this... _thing_ back then. There's a Vigilant of Stendarr in the next room and you want to do this here? I might as well ask how you developed a taste for blood."

The Vampire bit her lip again. Taryn's brow furrowed, and she finally sighed.

"Look, I'm sorry. I'm still touchy about it. I can tell myself that I've accepted it, that it's something that's part of me now—has always been—and sometimes I can laugh it off with a joke, but others... Sometimes I just want to be alone with my thoughts. It was abrupt and it was sudden. I had no time to wrap my head around it before it began and no time afterwards just to take a couple days and think. I had hours, and I had to look my friends in the eye and tell them I was going to be okay." Taryn stopped herself and checked the door. When she was satisfied it was locked, she walked over to the bed and loosely fell onto it. "You want to know about my home? Anvil was breathtaking. It was a painted portrait of seaside wonder. The look of the sunset on the water reflecting colours I could see nowhere else, the masts unfurling to capture the wind... I adored it. But I hated it too. I carry the scars from Anvil on my back every day. I couldn't afford to break apart from the stress and the abuse, because if I did children like Heniel would see. I shouldered everyone's burdens so they could have their best chance.

"Then I got here and everything went to Oblivion." Again she stopped herself, but that time to look at Serana. "Only reason you know is because you smelled it on me."

The Vampire watched Taryn. She wasn't sure what to say. But she knew Taryn had stopped herself short. She didn't want to reveal too much or get Serana too involved. There was a lot more. Taryn was merely returning Serana to her home.

 _You must have the same feeling in your stomach as I do when you think of returning,_ thought Serana.

Taryn sat up and chucked her muddy boots into the corner as the door knocked and the innkeeper announced hot water. Taryn had only walked halfway to the door when Serana finally spoke up.

"It was... degrading," Serana mumbled. When Taryn spun to look at her, Serana avoided her eyes. "I don't even remember if I wanted to or not, but I did it with my father and mother. We gave ourselves to Molag Bal. I was called a Daughter of Coldharbour, his plane of Oblivion. And that was centuries ago."

"That... seems like you're a lot more than just a regular Vampire."

"I'm a Pureblood. It took a daedra to make me a Vampire. I suppose the ones you know today could be our descendants, in a twisted way. The ones we passed our condition onto."

Taryn opened the door, grabbed the hot water and poured it quickly into the tub. She placed the large bucket outside the door and locked it again, though she'd glanced in the direction of Heniel's room and saw his hot water steaming still by the door.

"Did you want to bathe first?" asked Taryn. "I can go eat."

Serana agreed with a slow nod, and Taryn left the room wordlessly, pondering the woman's words. But she left with a bit of relief. It was nice to find someone who felt as conflicted as she did, who hid it under snark and sarcasm. A kindred spirit.

The Imperial spun on her heel and knocked on the door. Serana had only just locked it behind her, and opened it with scrutiny. "Yes?" she asked.

Taryn bit her lip and ashamedly glanced down at her feet, dark hair obscuring her moss-green eyes from sight. "... I forgot my boots."

_/-\\_

 _ **14 First Seed, 4E 202**_

"If you're looking for opportunities to make some coin, well, I'm your man." The muddy-looking Argonian grinned at Eduard from beneath the awning of Angela's Aromatics, somehow making him appear even sleazier than before. The torchlight didn't help much either, and cast harrowing shadows on their faces.

But Eduard's step hesitated. There was barely any coin on his person, only enough to pay for the night at the Winking Skeever so Milos could get some proper rest, but not nearly enough to summon a healer to assess their wounds. Milos was slowly improving in his health, but Eduard... somehow he felt slower, sluggish, even. It was annoying having to remove his mask, dab at his brow, put it back into place and repeat every five minutes, but he was a stubborn man. He'd felt similarly when he'd first met the Dovahkiin.

"What kind of opportunities?" asked Eduard suspiciously. He'd spent the last couple hours wandering Solitude for work, eager to obtain some money to cure the maladies he and Milos were plagued with. No one at the mill, the docks, or the markets wanted any help. With the war on, gold was tight. People barely had two septims to rub together, and parting with even one? Forget it. Yet here was a strange man with an offer for work. And so brazen, as well.

"Clever one. A man who doesn't let such things pass him by. I like that." The Argonian leaned against a pillar supporting the awning and crossed his arms over his chest. By no means was he as large as Milos, but he was well-built, lithe and sinewy. His armour had space for movement. He was the kind of Argonian Eduard had been told was a stereotype: sneaky. "You know what helps Solitude tick? In Whiterun it's the farms and the trade hub, in Riften the mead. Solitude, good sir, is ripe with ships. The port is the largest in Skyrim and well-fortified. More ships sail in every day carrying weapons, treasures, loot... All that goes towards the war effort. So many, in fact, some tend to get... lost."

"Lost?"

"And on top of that, the cargo ships are practically unmanned. So many Nords and Imperials pledging their swords and axes to the war that there aren't many people left outside of it."

The Argonian stopped speaking when a couple of Solitude guards passed them by, glancing at the two men out of the corners of their eye, but they didn't stop. The Argonian even waved and smiled at them.

"Let me guess: you intend to find one of these 'lost' ships and 'rescue' the cargo?" asked Eduard quietly.

"Very clever indeed," commented the Argonian. "A ship called the _Icerunner_ is due in Solitude tonight. If someone were to, say, douse the light in the Solitude lighthouse for an hour or so, the _Icerunner_ would run aground. Those dangerous waters are difficult to maneuver, after all. But only the ship would find any misfortune. The sailors might be grateful for their speedy rescue and reward their heroes for such bravery." The Argonian's smile widened. "And if there were loot to be found, I'm sure an arrangement could be made with whoever took care of the lighthouse. Something like thirty percent of the take."

Eduard scrutinized the Argonian. There was no doubt in his mind that he would try to wriggle out of a deal. He looked the type who'd done it before.

"Forty," said Eduard, and extended his hand, "and we have a deal."

The Argonain took Eduard's hand far too quickly. Eduard shook it nonetheless, and watched the man's expression turn gleeful and smug. "A deal it is, good sir. Forty percent." He pulled Eduard a bit closer, and whispered, "You know what you have to do," before releasing him and walking a path to the gates. "Oh, and see me when you're finished. Wouldn't want you to miss out on your payment. I'll be at the docks, by the East Empire Company harbour."

"Farewell," mumbled Eduard as he watched him depart. A man too eager for a deal, offering strange and possibly perilous work. Eduard had seen his like before. _He intends for me to die,_ thought Eduard, and his mouth twisted into a smile. _Or he thinks to kill me when the job's been done. He wouldn't have agreed to such a split in loot if he didn't._

As he began following the Argonian out the front gates of Solitude, it reminded him of earlier days, of Dragon Priests eager to curry favour with each other. To create new alliances and destroy old ones, they pledged themselves to one another when the terms were mutually beneficial, but they were quick to turn on one another should the need arise. Eduard had been guilty of it himself, but turned up on the wrong end of his deal. That's why he had to head to Solstheim, after all.

 _But I can still get rid of a few thugs,_ mused Eduard. _Take enough gold to get looked at, eat, and keep our lodgings..._

 _"Taryn will find us in Solitude,"_ urged Milos, whose tired legs were on the verge of collapse, even with Eduard supporting him. Eduard had dragged Milos the last of the way, and finally into the Winking Skeever. But before then, when Milos was still coherent, he babbled about faith in his friend, the Dovahkiin. _"We agreed. Meet up in Solitude if we were separated. We agreed..."_

 _"And if she's dead?"_ Eduard had asked in response. He'd seen her taken when a Vampire's knife penetrated his side, watched her get dragged up the steps limp as a ragdoll. He couldn't summon the words to yell at her to awaken, and neither could Milos. For all they knew, she was drained of every drop of blood. _"We can't stay in Solitude forever. What then?"_

Stubbornly, Milos replied, _"She'll be there."_

Of course, Taryn wasn't there when they arrived. Eduard gave her a week at most. Even she couldn't get so distracted by other people's suffering as to ignore her friend in need. She was too disgustingly optimistic, always prancing around with bright green eyes, hair tied behind her head in a thick brown plait, skin soft like a silken sheet, grinning like a child who'd been given sweets, and always—.

Eduard stopped suddenly. A Nord bumped into his back, swore and yanked his cart around the strangely-garbed man, whose violet robes were still stained with dried, crusted blood. What a fever to make him think that that! Eduard stepped out of the way of the gate, eyes glaring at him all the way, and into the cool shade of an alleyway. He lifted his mask and wiped away the perspiration that had gathered there. The fever was muddling his thoughts of the Dovahkiin—his sworn enemy, but also the woman who took her damned sweet time taking him to the Labrynthian, where he was sure he could find a way home.

 _She's always distracted,_ amended Eduard. She's always stalling. _I should have been back to my time by now. I should have stopped this madness from happening._ And yet the dragons had chosen the Dovahkiin as the one with the most powerful Thu'um.

He didn't deny it. She'd been strong enough to defeat Alduin, and fortunate enough to survive the encounter. A feat only replicated by the Tongues, who had to cast Alduin through Time to reign victorious. But the Dovahkiin would be the first to talk about the help she had. She'd explained the entire battle in detail, from evaporating the mists to the ghostly army that erupted from the portal to Sovngarde. She was not alone, and yet it was she who defeated Alduin and brought the Elder Scroll's prophecy to pass.

He just couldn't shake the image of the last—nay, the first—Dovahkiin he'd encountered, laughing atop the bones of the very creatures he used to worship, his domain scattered with the dead and wounded. That man had sought out the dragons, lulled them into a false sense of security and superiority, and then killed them to achieve their powers.

What a cruel irony that Eduard would bear witness to both the First and the Last.

 _Hurry, Lokbruniik,_ he goaded himself. _Fever will only get worse if you stand around. Get moving._

Composed once more (and keeping his thoughts far from the Dovahkiin), Eduard resumed his exit of the city and stepped down the path to the docks. The Argonian was nowhere to be found. At the far end of the shoal Eduard could glimpse the lighthouse just as its flame began burning. The keeper was there. The priest decided he'd worry about that person later. For now, he just needed to get to the lighthouse before sundown, or he worried his fever would grow worse and he wouldn't be able to coordinate his feet as well as usual.

He found his way down the docks and onto the shore, and at a brisk pace he began walking in the direction of the lighthouse. He tested the feel of his magicka in his palms, first the roar of fire, then the chill of ice, and lastly the electricity of his lightning. If he could summon those with ease, he felt no worries in casting wards or other spells to defend him.

Eduard kept a wide berth between himself and some horkers lounging on flat rocks at the seaside. One or two glanced at him warily, but as he passed them by they resumed their lazy snooze. _Avoid a fight,_ Eduard cautioned himself. _Don't want the fever to get worse than it is. Get in, douse the light, get out, and prepare for double-crossing from a thief._

The sun had dipped below the horizon, setting the sea aglow in an orange hue. Masser and Secunda were on the rise with shadows waning across their surfaces, though more so Masser than Secunda. He remembered how their motley group had made it to Winterhold earlier than usual so the Dovahkiin and Milos could chart them with the Arch-Mage. Always on time, always desperate to be there before the blasted moons were full. They'd made it for Masser, but neither the Dovahkiin nor Milos seemed particularly troubled about missing Secunda.

Eduard ducked behind a pile of boulders as a man exited the lighthouse. An old Nord man with side whiskers and a pipe, he belched into the cool night air, stepped beside the stairs of the lighthouse and relieved himself. Eduard put his hand on his dagger.

 _The dried blood already makes you suspicious,_ Lokbruniik. _Try not to gather any more suspicion with a murdered lighthouse keeper._

The priest quietly but hurriedly approached the Nord. It was made easier when he heard the Nord cursing and trying to coax out a stream, which led to some heated bargaining. Eduard's dagger was in his palm, and as he reached the keeper he reversed the grip and smacked it down hard onto the old Nord's head. The man flailed forward with sudden surprise and hit the pebbles on the shore, unconscious.

"When the flame goes out, someone will wonder what's wrong," Eduard decided aloud. "They'll find you tied up, so I don't have to worry about murder."

It took a good fifteen minutes to make the Nord decent, drag him up the slippery steps of the lighthouse and tie him to a wooden chair. Eduard couldn't find a strong enough gag for when he'd awaken, but the priest decided he'd be long gone before the Nord awoke, so there would be no issue with the Nord identifying him. A man in violet robes and golden mask wasn't terribly difficult to find.

The priest sped up the steps regardless of the sudden fatigue he felt. _Either that Nord was fatter than he looked, reasoned Eduard, or I'm worse off than I thought._

Still, once he reached the top he spotted the burning flame of the lighthouse. It had just been fed new logs, and there was a pile stacked near the stairway. A small wooden stool was seated beside it. The lighthouse keeper must have watched the ships coming in while puffing his pipe from that place.

"All right." Eduard extended his hand towards the kindling. As his fingers came into contact, ice spider-webbed down the logs and towards the flames. In an instant, the fire was dead. Its food was wrapped inside its mortal enemy. "Lights out."

_/-\\_

 _ **15 First Seed, 4E 202**_

Taryn collapsed onto her bed and sighed at the roof. A fire blazed in the corner, kept alive by the innkeep Jonna, who really must have used it as an excuse to be anywhere but near Lurbuk, the self-professed bard. Serana was seated in front of it for light while reading that book she'd been too bored to read a night ago. She was nearly finished it too, from the look of it.

Heniel followed Taryn inside and flopped onto the bed as well. "I'll never lift my arms again," he moaned into the straw.

Taryn managed to prop herself up on her elbows and grinned wickedly at Heniel. She was tired as well, but the Breton was a magic caster and she used her sword almost on a daily basis. She had a distinct advantage over him. "Then how will you eat?" she asked.

"Like a boar," he answered robotically.

The Imperial rolled her eyes and rubbed in between his shoulder blades. "Get up, Henny. Eat, bathe, and then go to sleep. We'll make for Solitude tomorrow morning."

Heniel reluctantly pried himself from the bed and dragged his feet through the door. As soon as he'd disappeared, Serana shut her book, stretched and yawned widely.

"And weren't you supposed to get some sleep today?"

"Who could sleep with all that racket?" Serana grumbled, and as though to hammer her point home, Lurbuk began drumming and signing as workers from the mill filed in to spend their hard-earned gold. Her eyebrows raised towards Taryn, and the latter woman grinned.

"No one in their right mind," agreed Taryn, and hopped back onto her feet. "Well, I have one last thing to do before I get ready for bed. Don't wait up."

"If you say so." Serana waved at Taryn and resumed her book while Taryn slipped out of the inn and into the humid marshlands of Morthal. Taking great care to ignore the charred remains of the home near the inn, Taryn stepped around the building and into the muck to get to the stables.

She peered inside the gloom. The only souls within were the horses sleeping in the straw. Taryn opened the gate (which creaked especially loudly), slid inside and squinted to try to find Helgi in the gloom.

 _Must not be here quite yet._ The Imperial shrugged and began to brush Wilderqueen. Perhaps she was having supper with her father. She'd mentioned him before. Wouldn't be long then for Taryn to wait.

When both Wilderqueen and Appleseed were groomed well, Taryn stood up and placed the brush on the shelf where she'd found it, and as soon as she turned around, she found Helgi. The little Nord girl was tutting to Wilderqueen, trying to get her attention, but the horse only flicked her ear in the girl's direction and resumed sleep.

"You snuck up on me," said Taryn with a wry grin.

Helgi smoothed out her dress. "I didn't want to disturb you."

"Well, thank-you." Taryn opened the gate to the stable and gestured for Helgi to exit first. "My lady," she intoned playfully. "Aren't you cold in only that dress?"

"No, I'm a Nord!" Helgi practically skipped outside and twirled to face Taryn. "Are you ready?!" she asked excitedly.

"Ready," agreed Taryn. "I'll cover my eyes here, all right?"

"No peeking!"

"I promise, no peeking. Ten?"

"Thirty!"

"Thirty it is." Taryn loudly began counting. She expected to hear Helgi sprint off, but found her to be exceptionally quiet. _Ah, she must be hanging around nearby,_ assumed Taryn. She waited for any more sounds that might tip her off to Helgi's hiding place, but no sounds other than the patrolling guardsmen and the singing/yelling of Lurbuk within the inn permeated the night. She thought she'd have to take a look at the footprints in the muck.

At thirty seconds, Taryn opened her eyes and quickly cast her gaze on the sodden ground. Everything was too broken up to get a clear read, but even then she should have seen some fresh depressions that didn't fit with the mud horses' hooves had dug up. And if Helgi had been careful, Taryn still would have seen _something_ —anything!

She started where she'd last seen Helgi, mere steps away from the stable door. There was a pair of bootprints on the ground there, but nowhere else.

Taryn's curiosity perked when she realized she heard a giggle nearby. She's watching me. Drawing her cloak a bit more tightly around her body thanks to the dropping temperature, Taryn set off in the direction she'd heard the childish laughter, putting the mud to the back of her mind. She could see her own breath in the sudden chill and quickly ambled through the brush around the far end of the inn. She nearly dropped down a steep slope of mud and into the murky swamp water below, but managed to catch herself and leap onto a nearby mound of land while her heart was in her throat. Another laugh. She must have looked funny while she panicked. Mud was difficult to get out of the segments in her armour.

"I know you're nearby Helgi. I can hear you," Taryn called. Then she realized where she stood.

The mound of land was right beside the inn, but withheld the charred remains of the burned, blackened house. It listed to the side and had begun to slide into the mud, but Taryn imagined that had been a problem long before it burned away. She stuck to the shadows when some guards passed nearby with torches lit. The last thing she needed was to draw the ire of the locals for being in such close proximity to a recent tragedy, especially since she'd been warned away.

But she heard it again; Helgi's laughter coming from the home. Groaning and once again drawing her cloak around her, Taryn stepped inside the threshold and peered within the ashes. It was a modest home with only one communal room. There were two beds (one larger than the other) and a table eaten away by flame. In fact, the only thing that appeared even relatively unscathed was the hearth, which still had a cauldron hanging over it. Taryn was sure if she peered inside she'd see burned porridge.

"We shouldn't be in here, Helgi," called Taryn lowly, hoping her voice wouldn't carry too far. "You can hide again, but elsewhere."

"But this is my house!" Helgi objected indignantly, and Taryn nearly leapt out of her skin. How had she snuck up on her again? "I can come home if I want!"

"Helgi, it's burned to a crisp. There are no blankets left—where's your ma and da?"

She crossed her arms and avoided Taryn's eyes. Taryn breathed into her gloves and rubbed her hands together to generate some relief from the cold, but she didn't look away. It was something she'd learned after years of looking after children younger than herself: never back down and they'll spill their secrets.

"Ma's gone..." the Nord girl finally whispered. "She died in the fire. And da's living with that lady who came to town a while ago."

"And you're living here?"

"I live where I want." Helgi put on the bravest face she could muster, one teetering on rebellion. Taryn recognized that look. Oftentimes it had been the one she faced Imperial soldiers with when she'd lived in Anvil.

Taryn knelt in front of her. "Did you want to stay at the inn tonight?" she asked politely.

"What are you doing in here?"

For the third time in that night, someone had snuck up on Taryn. That time Taryn had met them with her hand on her belt, where her sword would have been had she not left it in the inn, safe and sound near the fireplace. Thankfully, her blunder was unneeded. There was only a woman standing at the door dressed in a spectacular fur cloak that must have cost a pretty penny, although her eyes glared daggers at Taryn.

"Trying to coax the little one out," Taryn replied, and felt a small, icy hand slip into hers. _My butt you're not cold!_

The woman's eyes settled on Helgi, who hid behind Taryn's legs almost soundlessly. "Get out of here. Enough damage has been done."

She spun on her heel and left down the wooden path by the inn. Taryn escorted Helgi out and stopped near the door to the inn, where she finally let go of her small hand.

"Helgi—."

Taryn had barely looked in her direction before she realized Helgi had disappeared. She didn't even see her fleeing back or hear the patter of her boots on the planks. She'd disappeared into thin air. Taryn felt a lump forming in her throat, and then she realized something that made her stomach churn:

Taryn hadn't seen Helgi's cold breath on the air.

And, come to think of it, she hadn't seen that woman's, either.


	10. The Investigation

Chapter Nine:

The Investigation

 _ **15 First Seed, 4E 202**_

Serana had smelled Taryn in the room before she saw her. The scent of the horses, sweat, the muck from Morthal's bog, and ash was the most prominent over her own, masking it in a shield of "where-she'd-beens". Serana knew without even having to ask that Taryn's curiosity finally won out, and she'd gone poking into the cinder ruins beside the inn.

The Vampire could tell Taryn was trying to keep quiet, that the short, staggered breaths and the soft, deliberate steps towards the smouldering fireplace were considerate of Serana. Well, the latter was. The former made Serana concerned, but like always she buried it under crass.

"Finish digging through ruins?" Serana asked, and sounded quite a bit more tired than she'd initially thought.

There was no quip, no comment, nothing. Taryn didn't seem to have heard Serana. The Vampire sat up in bed, half expecting to see a rebuttal on the rise. Instead the Imperial just leaned her hands against the stone and stared into the flames. She gave no indication she'd even heard Serana, much less noticed the Vampire was still awake. While the flames were still burning, the room's gloom was too dark. Taryn was in her own world, a world of horses, sweat, the muck from Morthal's bog, and ash.

"What's wrong?"

Finally there was some semblance of recognition. Taryn cast a glance over her shoulder, bleary-eyed and looking oddly shaken. Her knitted brows betrayed intense thought. She grasped for some reasoning Serana didn't know about. Yet, at least. She pressed again.

"What's wrong?"

Taryn's shoulders sagged. The fur mantle over her shoulders remained in place. She didn't even kick off her boots. She trailed in mud from outside.

"There was a kid," she said softly, finally breaking the silence beyond the cracking flame. "She..." The Imperial finally stepped away from the flame, but she was still silhouetted against it. She cast a lengthy shadow. "I went to the stables to meet a child I'd promised to play a game with if we stayed longer than we'd planned. It turns out she died in the fire that made the house beside the inn collapse. And there was a woman—I couldn't see her breath on the air. Maybe I'm just paranoid, but I think this fire wasn't a freak accident."

"It isn't our business."

"That child died in the flames, Serana." There was no anger or forcefulness behind her words. Only pleading. "A child. A young girl. And her father's moved in with some woman, as if the loss of his wife and child mean next to nothing."

"Fathers sometimes place their own desires above the needs of their children." Serana's statement was so frank and matter-of-fact that Taryn found herself speechless for a moment. Serana looked away from the Imperial, avoiding her gaze.

But in the meantime, Taryn remembered Kodlak and how much he'd sacrificed for the Companions, placing his guild over his own desires to chase after his wife and child, relentlessly pursued by Thalmor agents. A Companion had died for them, and that was one too many. He wouldn't let the Companions be consumed by his search.

The Imperial's hands balled into fists. "Then they shouldn't be fathers at all," replied Taryn, narrowing her eyes at the Vampire. "There's a girl dead, killed in suspicious circumstances. I saw her ghost, I felt her cold hands in mine. If she were my child I'd make the bastard who did this pay with blood."

"She's not yours."

"No. But she's Helgi. That meant something once. And I want to make sure she never forgets who she was. I'm going to speak to Hroggar and get to the bottom of this."

Taryn turned on her heel and went for the door, but Serana was already there. Her Vampiric speed had carried her there to stop the Imperial before she could leave, but she hadn't used it in so many centuries she very nearly hit the door, staggered, and fell forward. Taryn caught her before she could hit the floor and hefted her up gently. The anger was momentarily gone, replaced with concern for Serana. For a creature of the undead, she didn't look so good. Serana felt that much. Suddenly drained, vulnerable, weak.

 _"Wonder of wonders Molag Bal would let you live, Daughter of Coldharbour."_ She could see her father again. His gentle smile that hid a terrifying sneer, soft eyes that withheld his disdain.

"Serana!" Taryn swung the Vampire's arm over her shoulder and helped her back to the bed, but Serana had planted her feet at the bedside. She refused to get back in.

"I'll be fine," Serana managed, shutting out those early memories. "I... don't want you to go. You're not obligated to. You don't even have a connection to her." Serana's red-orange eyes pierced Taryn's moss-green. "Why help someone you don't even know?"

Taryn, perhaps unintentionally, revealed a vulnerability in her gaze. She avoided Serana's, but whether it was because she'd become aware of it or not, Serana couldn't gauge. "If I don't help, who will?"

A child abandoned, left behind inadvertently—Taryn felt that so acutely it was like she was back in Anvil. She remembered every day how that loneliness had felt, how she wished there had been someone to help her.

She saw so much of herself in Helgi, she couldn't help but feel a need to save her.

Serana gently pushed Taryn away from herself and began changing into her clothes. "What are you doing?" asked Taryn.

"Well, if you're so determined to stick your nose into their business, I may as well see what I can do about hurrying it up. What's the plan?" Serana set her cape and cloak in place and made for the door.

The Imperial smirked and led the way. "Well, it'll involve sacrilege."

"If that's meant to make me squeamish, you'll be sorely disappointed."

_/-\\_

 _ **15 First Seed, 4E 202**_

Eduard had been right.

There was absolutely no doubt, and yet he didn't feel near as proud as he should have. There was a vain hope he'd be paid for the job and be on his way, perhaps rubbed off from that fool Dovahkiin, but he should have known better. He'd seen the look in their eyes and still thought he would be allowed to leave without anyone stopping him. He hadn't even felt the gold in his palm before a bandit tried to stick a dagger in his back.

The first one he killed was that bandit. The second, their Argonian ringleader. He theorized killing her would scare the others off, and he'd be able to plunder their loot on the beached ship to his heart's content. Unfortunately, he was mistaken. He only infuriated them.

Eduard whipped spells about, hurling them from port to starboard without so much a glance to see if he'd actually hit a target. At the very least none had any particular talents with magicka, and it kept their swords at bay. But he still had to be wary of the arrows streaking through the wall of fire between him and them.

He heard a shout above him too late and tumbled forward. The bandit on his back raised his dagger to strike, but Eduard reacted faster, swung his arm around and released a blast of flame. Scorched flesh and screams of agony hung on the air. Eduard took to his feet, acutely aware of the sting of his side. A touch revealed he was bleeding again.

 _I suppose that's the end of these robes,_ Eduard thought bitterly. They'd been his father's.

Nonetheless, Eduard ignored the sting of his wound and drew his dagger. He didn't like his chances here. He could escape out the bow of the ship, dive into the water, but the bandits wouldn't wait even a moment to pepper him with arrows. He'd be a corpse the moment he broke the surface for air.

In his left hand, Eduard prepared a ward and charged through the flames. They licked his robes and scorched his boots, but he exploded forward like a daedra through a portal to Oblivion. While the bandits, taken aback by his audacity, loaded more arrows, Edward slid forward on his knees and transformed his ward into a sustained blast of electricity that chained to three other bandits. Their flesh seared. Eduard could see small bits of electricity jumping around their open mouths. They died quickly. The electricity transformed on the go into an outpouring of fire, catching two more in its wake. Eduard felt the strain on his reserves, felt his spirit falter at his weakness. A bandit stepped close enough to engage in melee combat, but Eduard directed the flames at him instead to try to spare his side.

A mistake. A foolish, novice mistake. The bandit ducked under the wall and cut the priest's arm. Blood gushed forth and coated the deck. Eduard saw red and plunged his dagger hilt-deep into the bandit's thigh. His arm was useless. Now he could only fight with his dagger, and the last two bandits knew it. They charged at him without a second to spare. Eduard stepped back, felt the years of training his elder brothers had beaten into him, and hoped he could find a weakness between the two.

One managed a lucky graze on Eduard's mask deep enough to cut through his left temple. Eduard shouted and clutched at the wound. It leaked blood into his eye. His depth perception would suffer greatly for it, but he continued his retreat.

He couldn't help but think how he, a Dragon Priest— _Alduin's_ Dragon Priest—would perish on a beached ship, done in by two no-name bandits, because of his own inadequacies.

But he'd be damned if he'd die retreating.

Eduard roared as loudly as he could, feeling elation in his breast, and slashed wildly about with his curved dagger. He could feel his arm tiring. It was a stupid, foolish move, but he felt the desperation driving him. A push to live.

 _Alduin is dead. My purpose is lost._ But Eduard felt it—a desire for life. Behind his mask, he smiled. _If I get out of this alive, I'll find myself a new purpose,_ he decided. _Maybe... Maybe I'll even..._

A howl. Not of pain or anger. It was an animal's. The bandits backed far away from Eduard and nearly fled down the gangplank, but Eduard saw a huge, fur-covered beast leap onto the ship and catch a bandit in its fangs. He screamed, and it dissolved into bubbling sobs as blood fountained from his mouth, and the beast tore a chunk of flesh from his throat. The last bandit yelped and fled the other direction, hoping to leap into the water and flee. He would have made it, had another beast not appeared. It thrust a clawed hand straight through the bandit's chest. Eduard wasn't certain, but he thought he saw the bandit's heart skip across the deck.

 _I'm to be done in by beasts then._ He gritted his teeth. _No. No, I won't think like that. I'm stronger than that. I'm Lokbruniik. If I'm to die today by their hands, I'll make sure to take them to the afterlife with me._

Eduard charged at the beast near the gangplank, roaring at the top of his lungs. It snarled at him with a body between its teeth. Before Eduard could bring down the blow, his arm was caught. He whirled, shot his leg out and connected with a knee. Heimdall swore and hopped up and down on the deck while he tended to his knee and glared daggers at the priest.

"Are you completely insane, you dumb bastard?!" Eduard breathed heavily into his mask, acutely aware of how difficult it had become. But Heimdall continued nonetheless. "You could have broken my leg!"

The Dragon Priest was, understandably, confused. There were two monsters at his back gobbling up half-dead bandits on the burning deck of a ship, and Heimdall had stopped his hand from fighting them.

Heimdall Jorgenson, Harbinger of the Companions, was dressed in his favoured hide armour that showed off his many scars he'd accumulated through various battles. His blond hair had grown long in the months since Eduard had seen him last, and curtained in front of disapproving silver eyes.

Eduard had never gotten along with the Nord. He couldn't remember exactly why, either, but the dislike was mutual between them. From the moment they'd met they were trying to outperform one another.

"They're friendly, all right? No need to fight them." Heimdall tested his leg on the deck and, satisfied, crossed his arms across his chest. "We heard the commotion and thought we'd help out. Guess we just didn't expect you, or I might have left you be."

"I almost wish you had. I have no desire to be indebted to _you_ ," Eduard sneered. "But... I suppose your help is appreciated."

"Where's Taryn?"

Eduard felt an annoyance spark in the back of his mind. He let it go. He was without the strength to investigate it. His patience was wearing thin, as well. "Not in Solitude, if you're wondering. We were separated."

"I couldn't get anything from Milos, either..." Heimdall placed his hands on his hips and set his eyes on the deck. So it wasn't just a coincidence he'd found Eduard... Behind him, Eduard heard sickening tearing and crunching. Heimdall was hardly shaken by it at all. "Is she all right?"

"Don't want your woman to be a lost little lamb in this land?"

"She's hardly a lamb. And she isn't my woman!"

"Not yet, is what you mean to add."

Heimdall glared at Eduard. "Don't make me leave you to die of your wounds, priest."

"Don't raise my hopes, Nord."

The young Harbinger pursed his lips. He didn't relent in his glare. "You keep to your own business."

"As soon as I return home, I intend to."

The crunching had mostly stopped. Heimdall looked over Eduard's shoulder, finally diverting his gaze. "Farkas, Vilkas, check the coast." As if they understood him, the massive, furry beasts leapt from the ship and separated down the coast.

Eduard watched on. Those monsters would disperse at a word from Heimdall, yet Eduard hadn't seen any magical aptitude from the Harbinger on the Dovahkiin's journey to defeat Alduin. He was intrigued.

"You control those beasts?"

"Don't call them that." Heimdall brushed past Eduard, ignoring the man's wounds. "We cleared out a cave of bandits on the coast. So long as none of them are left alive, we've wiped out this gang and our contract's fulfilled."

"And here I thought I'd be able to kill them all for double-crossing me."

"Doing a job for them then?"

"It was the only way to make coin. Otherwise I won't be able to pay for a healer, or a room at the Skeever for Milos and I."

Heimdall shrugged. "I got the room. They almost kicked that lizard out. And there's a healer tending to him now."

Eduard felt a weight lifted from his chest. The Argonian was strange, certainly, and very foreign to the priest, but he was good company. Didn't ask as many questions as others. "My thanks," he said automatically.

"Did that physically hurt you? To be nice?"

"Terribly. As you can see, the bleeding's intensified." His weary speech devolved. Eduard slumped against the railing of the listing ship. His body felt numb. "Damn... I had hoped I could hold out a while longer."

Heimdall knelt in front of Eduard. "... Look, I still owe you, too. You saved Taryn's life."

"I don't recall," he said indignantly.

"You put up a ward and saved her and Milos from a dragon's flames in Whiterun." Heimdall narrowed his eyes. "You had nothing to gain. In fact, you aided in Alduin's destruction. You helped bring peace to Skyrim."

Eduard had moved automatically then. He'd never meant to, of course, he'd just found himself there, facing down a dragon. "You call a lingering civil war peaceful?"

"Don't piss me off more than usual, priest." Heimdall procured a potion from his belt. "Just drink this and call us even, aye?"

Eduard eyed the Nord, then shakily accepted his offering. He struggled to uncork it, but Heimdall didn't make a move to help. He stood up and leaned against the railing to watch the waves. Eduard finally yanked the cork off, pulled up his mask and downed the whole of it. It would still take a while for it to commence, but he felt relief once more.

"Taryn's been all right these last few months?" Heimdall asked. "She's not... angry? Or upset?"

"She's fine." Eduard turned to look upward at the Nord. He'd piqued his curiosity. "Should she be angry?"

"Milos told me she just keeps taking everyone to Winterhold. I thought she'd be frustrated by now. But I keep sending her letters. She's courteous, though she doesn't want my help."

Eduard's eyebrow raised. "Help with what, Nord? Star-gazing?"

Heimdall finally looked at Eduard again. His eyes betrayed concern and confusion. Not for Eduard. No, there was the lingering disdain in the Nord's silver eyes that Eduard had grown accustomed to. For the Dovahkiin. "She never...?" He smirked and shook his head. "Well, you'd better ask her. That might actually be an express route to getting you home. I'm surprised you haven't razed Skyrim with how long she's been taking."

Eduard had wondered that as well, actually. On multiple occasions. But if anything came from being delayed in his return home, it was the knowledge he armed himself with of the future, and what could be changed to alter the course of history.

"I don't imagine you'll want to tell me."

"No. Not if she hasn't told you. But I guarantee she'll take you back to your time so fast you'll wonder if you'd even left in the first place."

"Why tell me this?"

The Nord smiled pleasantly and looked out to sea. The sun was peeking over the horizon. "I want you gone," Heimdall said plainly, and didn't intend to elaborate.

Eduard shook his head. "Then why not let me die?"

"Because I know she'd hate that. She doesn't like you, thinks you're a damn nuisance, but she wouldn't want you dead in cold blood."

Eduard frowned under his mask, and flinched when his throbbing temple began to itch with healing power. _If that's the case,_ he thought, _why take so long to get me home?_

The Nord stood straight and made for the gangplank. "Just do me a favour," he said over his shoulder, "and try not to linger too long. Who knows what you've already changed with your presence in this time?"

Eduard watched the Nord's retreating back, then began cradling and nursing his wounds once Heimdall had disappeared. "Too much," was his whispered answer.

He let his head lean back against a post on the railing. At least Milos was taken care of, and with the bandits dead Eduard could loot their coin to his heart's content. More than enough for a healer to take a good look at his wounds. The healing potions in this time were not as advanced as what he was used to. The Nords of Skyrim were irritatingly adverse to magicka.

So, all that was left was returning. Preferably, before the entire ship erupted into flames.

_/-\\_

 _ **16 First Seed, 4E 202**_

Past midnight, Taryn and Serana crept into the small cemetery placed upon a craggy hill overlooking the city below. It was a dark night, a cold night, so Serana's eyes came in handy. She found the trail and led them above with minimal slippage. It was less difficult to find the two fresh graves with stone markers. Taryn guessed the smaller stone monument was meant for Helgi, and the larger one for her mother.

Thing was, part of the grave was already dug up. The coffin lid was visible, and appeared to have been pried away, though Taryn couldn't see any marks from metal. Whoever opened the casket had not used any sort of earthly help.

"You found me."

Taryn was unsurprised now that Helgi could sneak up on her, so it was Serana who nearly jumped out of her skin and whirled around with her hand on her dagger. Helgi stood across from the women, her eyes staring at the cold, sodden ground, fidgeting bashfully. She had a slight smile on her face, deepening the dimples on her cheeks.

"The other one found me too. She opened the box, but... She didn't take me with her."

Taryn walked over to Helgi carefully, as though she were stepping on eggshells. Then she knelt in front of the girl. Serana dropped her guard and watched from a distance.

"Helgi..." Taryn put a soft hand on the girl's head. "Please, tell me what happened."

Her foot dug into the dirt. Or, at least, it should have. Her shoe left no marking. "Mama and papa were fighting," she began. "Ever since that lady came, papa wanted to spend time with her instead of mama and I. Then, papa pushed mama. She fell and some grease she was holding in a pan did too, but into the fire. It all happened so fast. Papa grabbed the pan and tried to take the grease out. Mama wasn't getting up. She hit her head. Then papa looked at me and he ran. I was so scared I hid. It was hot, but then it wasn't. It was cold. And then... I wasn't scared."

"Who's the other you mentioned?" Serana asked.

Taryn shot a glare from over her shoulder, sharp as a blade. Helgi's ghostly shoulders were shaking. The Imperial put both hands on her shoulders and pulled the girl close, as carefully and gingerly as she could. She ignored how cold the Nord girl was.

"Shh, shh, it's okay. You can cry."

Helgi shuddered. "I... can't. The other said I shouldn't."

"Why not?"

"Because... it isn't something to cry over..."

Taryn held her at arm's length and smiled warmly. "Helgi, it isn't for her to decide. If you're sad, cry. If you're afraid, be afraid. It's not your job to put on a brave face and pretend everything's all right. Adults are supposed to do that, so children like yourself can cry when you need to."

"... I'm dead." Helgi kept her eyes on the ground. "I can't cry, anyway."

Serana saw Taryn's mouth purse, then the Imperial took Helgi's chin and had her look up. "You know what I think death is? I think it's when you're forgotten. I think it's when those you love and who love you back are no longer on the Nirn to remember you. But that's only because they've reunited with you. Then they don't need to remember you, because you're there with them. And even when they're still alive, they remember you. They feel a prick near their nose and under their eyes because thinking of you makes them want to cry. They miss you. They remember you. They love you. And sometimes they will cry. Sometimes they just can't help it. And other times they'll try not to think about it. It helps them move on if they don't think about how you're not there. But you don't die until you're forgotten. And Helgi, you won't die for a long time. I remember you, your friends remember you, your father remembers you."

Helgi let Taryn's words sink in. Taryn didn't wait long. "Helgi, I need you to help me. Would you please tell me who the other one is you're talking about? Can you tell me more about the woman your father lives with?"

She nodded quickly. "I-I know her name: Alva. She moved here not long ago. And the other—I've seen her around town before. She's Thonnir's wife, Laelette, but she left. Papa said she joined the Stormcloaks, but I see Thonnir walking around at night with a torch searching for her, calling for her."

"And she only appears at night?" Serana put in.

The Nord ghost nodded. "The sunlight hurts her. I don't come out then either because it's harder to see. She said she wanted to protect me. That's why she was digging me up. She said I shouldn't be dead. Not really."

"Why?"

"She bit me." Serana's eyes narrowed dangerously. The girl nervously looked back at Taryn. "She said it would help. She said we could play together always. But I can't. I'm all burned up."

Taryn closed her eyes and breathed in slowly. Helgi bowed her head, worried she'd done some sort of wrong, because she saw Taryn frown deeply. The girl stepped away. Taryn didn't notice. She was too focused on keeping calm. Everything that child went through, everything she had to suffer, she suffered in death, unsure of what had transpired.

Alva seduced Hroggar, and another Vampire had sought to turn Helgi, but the girl died before she could become part of their coven. Serana could practically read Taryn's mind.

"Where there's one, there's bound to be more nearby," said the Vampire.

Taryn nodded, just as she heard a soft landing nearby, across from them on the other side of Helgi's coffin. She was cloaked in dark robes, but they weren't made for warmth. They were just to help blend into the darkness. Serana reached for her dagger at once, and Taryn slowly got to her feet while making her stand in front of the ghost girl.

"You never should have come here, travellers." She hissed loudly. There was a growl mixed in. "The little girl... I can still make her breathe. I can save her from that wretchedness."

"Let me guess..." Taryn was standing at her full height, glaring darkly at Laelette, whose red-orange eyes shone back, piercing through the darkness. "After Hroggar shoved his wife, he fled because he was worried he'd killed her. From there, you helped the fire grow. No one would suspect anything more than an adultering husband. Certainly no Vampires crawling around this place. You made a grave mistake, Laelette." Taryn pushed Dragonbane an inch from its sheathe with her thumb. It would be easier to draw. "You made restless dead."

"I can make her breathe." Laelette's maniacal grin split across her face. Serana saw madness and loneliness behind her eyes. "I can make her breathe."

Helgi's eyes welled up with terrified tears, even if they couldn't be shed. "Please don't let Laelette get me!"

"Taryn—." Serana's tone was low with warning. The Imperial didn't take her eyes off Laelette, but nodded in response.

"I know," affirmed the Imperial, "but I can't let this go. It's just not in my nature."

Laelette sprang forward fast as the wind with a loud shriek that would put a banshee to shame, claws extended to deadly points and hurtling towards the Imperial's heart. Taryn already found the words she wanted to use and drew Dragonbane as fast as her trained arm would allow.

 _ **"Su Grah Dun!"**_ Even if she murmured the Shout, it worked its strange magic. And it put her on more than even terms with the enemy Vampire before her. With absurd speed, Taryn drew Dragonbane from its sheathe and sliced diagonally with a ferocious roar of her own. Finally, Serana could see it. There was the small part of the Imperial that was influenced by the lycanthrope—her rage.

Serana's face was showered with blood as Dragonbane sliced through bone, sinew, and muscle, carving straight through Laelette's right arm. The Vampire howled in pain and despair, lost her footing and landed on the stump of her arm. Her momentum dragged her across the ground for several more seconds before she came to a stop, wailing like a ghost. Taryn just turned on her heel and began marching towards Laelette with murder in her eyes. The Vampire struggled to stand. Her legs were wounded, marred with shallow cuts that hadn't been there mere heartbeats ago. But Taryn had only swung once—.

No. Serana had been too distracted by the blood that was flung through the air and the dismembered limb that came to rest near the hole in the ground. Whatever Taryn had done, it had made her swing her weapon much faster than a normal person. It hadn't been once—it had been multiple times. But Laelette was a Vampire. The smaller cuts healed quickly, probably because she'd just fed on someone's blood. Laelette leapt up and nursed the stump of her arm. Taryn didn't seem at all concerned by Laelette's health, or by the blood she was drenched in.

Helgi had sidled up to Serana and watched with equal fascination and horror, but her eyes kept returning to the arm nearby her grave. Automatically, Serana put a cold hand on the child's head. "It'll be all right," she whispered. "Stay here."

The Vampire bolted forward, drew her elven dagger and slashed across Laelette's face in one smooth movement, intercepting Taryn from her pursuit, and Serana saw some semblance of recognition cross Taryn's features, just past her golden eyes.

Laelette snarled and lunged toward Serana in a rage. Taryn managed to swing Dragonbane between Laelette's claws and Serana's back to deflect them away, which created an opening for Serana to twist around and plunge her dagger deep into Laelette's chest, straight through the deep, diagonal gouge Taryn inflicted during her first rapid swings.

But Laelette was desperate. She bared her fangs and sank them into the exposed flesh at Serana's neck, then yanked backward. Serana howled as her skin was torn and blood spurted from her neck, drenching her clothes and cloak. She lost hold of her dagger as she staggered back, and Taryn pressed ahead with a terrifying, almost inhuman cry.

 _ **"Wuld Nah Kest!"**_ The Imperial was shot forward with such speed not even Serana could keep track, even if she'd been paying keen attention. But suddenly Taryn was behind Laelette, sword held out with her extended arm, and she was resting on her knee. Laelette stared ahead at her twitching, dismembered arm, and grinned maliciously.

That grin flooded blood from her mouth, and then Laelette's other arm hit the ground. She sneered, and focused on Helgi in the distance.

"I can make you breathe..." she muttered hoarsely as more blood came up. "I can make you breathe...!"

Taryn spun and swung Dragonbane around, cleaving diagonally through Laelette's neck and down through to her abdomen. The Breton Vampire was dead before Taryn had even pried Dragonbane from her corpse. Laelette fell forward at Serana's feet, unmoving, with her wicked grin forever etched in her fair face.

Taryn wiped her blade off on her mantle and glanced up at Helgi. The girl gasped and suddenly vanished into the night air. The Imperial let it roll off her shoulders and knelt beside Serana when Dragonbane was back at her side. "Are you okay?" she asked hesitantly, eyeing the wound on Serana's neck.

Serana spat aside and clenched her teeth. "I've never known a Vampire to bite another like that..." She peeked up at Taryn, whose eyes were still a rich gold. Taryn broke her gaze and began rubbing them. "How'd you—no, what was that? That yelling?"

"It's nothing. Don't worry about it." Taryn was blinking quickly, breathing deeply until the gold disappeared and her familiar moss-green returned.

The topic was dropped for the moment, especially once Serana heard a crowd of heavy footfalls and indicated to Taryn as much. Taryn ripped off the bandage she'd used on her own neck and pressed it to Serana's wound.

"Just play along," she whispered, and helped the Vampire to her feet.

Men and women carrying torches and weapons sprinted up the hill. Guardsmen and soldiers had joined the throng and led the charge. The townspeople of Morthal came to a sudden stop when the finally spotted Taryn and Serana in the torchlight. Taryn hardly needed to scan the crowd to spot Alva, wrapped in a luxurious cloak and staring at the body on the ground with a dark, disappointed glare.

"Laelette!" a man shoved through the crowd and dropped his torch near the body. In a moment he'd scooped her into his arms and his lap, and cradled her. "By the gods, Laelette! Laelette, _please_!"

"You murderers!" Taryn glared at Alva. It was her voice that carried over Thonnir's and roused the townspeople. "You butchers!"

And their chorus of voices sprang up: " _Murderers_!" " _Killers_!" " _Monsters_!" " _Necromancers_!"

"She attacked _us_!" Serana pleaded, but with a glance at Taryn, she fell silent. Taryn wasn't defending them. In fact, she was smirking a bit.

Especially when the people shouted, "Take them to face judgement from the jarl!"

Taryn nudged Serana again and winked. "Play along," she encouraged her, and held out her hands for the guards to slap shackles on. Taryn had a plan, and at the moment, it was coming along well.


	11. Trials and Tribulations

Chapter Ten:

Trials and Tribulations

 _ **17 First Seed, 4E 202**_

Two days after Heimdall appeared and the bandits were eliminated, Eduard was roused from sleep by raucous laughter in the Winking Skeever proper. It had just passed midday, so the drinkers had begun to file in before the regulars who had yet to get off work. He could hear the murmur of voices, the strumming of a lute, a clear voice singing for the patrons.

It was nothing like awakening back at his home. His chambers were always dark, thanks to the lack of a window to allow the natural morning light to filter in. Candles would have been burned out, wax frozen in a pool at the candelabrum's base as though it was about to overflow. Sometimes his departure from his bed would stir a slumbering partner, whose clothes were discarded in one corner or another.

But the priest sighed, pushed those memories back, and rose from his bed. The midday sun warmed his back as he gathered his clothes. Bloody, crusted, and certainly far worse for wear than the day he'd first donned those violet robes. How he'd admired them. He'd seen his father wearing similar ones at every waking moment, so proud he was of his office. And he never once removed his mask, the symbol of his unwavering loyalty to his betters.

When Eduard scooped the mask from his nightstand, placed there with care the night before, he scrutinized it. The tusks had been damaged beyond repair, the upper temple was breached, and the wondrous, exalted gold that had once shone in the sunlight had dulled considerably. His father would be mortified, disappointed, and most of all ashamed. It had taken Eduard so long to acquire that mask, to become his own father's right hand, he could hardly stand to see it in such rough shape. Eduard thought it might even be beyond repair. Craftsmanship in this age was nothing like his time.

He'd scarcely slipped on the mask and hood before there was a knock at his door. The individual let himself in with barely any time between knocks. Eduard would have roasted him alive had it not been a friendly face: Milos.

"I was wondering when you'd get out of bed." The Argonian cracked a toothy grin. Heimdall had left part of his earnings for the bandits with them and had a healer check in on Milos, who recovered well. Eduard was relieved the healer had stayed to examine his own person, and had slept off most of the potions he'd been left with. "Feeling better?"

"Much." Eduard gathered the last of his gear, such as his belt and curved dagger, and gestured for the Argonian to enter properly, which he obliged wordlessly. "But you should speak for yourself. I imagine you'd been visiting your ancestors for some time, the way you were talking in your delirium."

"Ah, yes. It was great to see grandmother Wumeek again. Such a peach, that one," replied the Argonian snidely. "Must have been your ancestors kept you alive for as long as you were bleeding. I think I know where Taryn's luck rubbed off."

Eduard snorted disdainfully. "Yes. The Dovahkiin certainly made me a lucky man. I'll thank her when next we meet."

"On that note, still no word's been sent." Eduard saw the Argonian's brow furrow behind his scales. "This isn't like her. She'd at least have sent a message along."

"Or she's waiting for a dramatic entrance."

"Think we should go back? Start looking?"

Eduard had considered the thought previously. "No. We'll make things difficult if she can't find us." _If she's still alive,_ he added, though he somehow had no doubt she was. Once, he'd had her by the throat. He didn't know if she'd thought about fighting back, but he couldn't deny that fire in her eyes, one that craved life. If she truly thought her life was in danger, she would have. She was Dovahkiin, after all.

Once, she'd had him at her own mercy. He could still feel the cold sweat from the poison one of his numerous opponents lathered onto their weapon. He could hardly control his actions or his rage until he was weakened by the tear at the summit of the Throat of the World. His father's murder was at the forefront of his mind. It made him realize he'd not spent any time mourning. But she spared him. Even walked that long, treacherous path up the mountain to retrieve his dagger—a connection to his life where he'd come from.

Most of all, he recalled those big, moss-green eyes when he'd stepped in between her and a gout of fiery dragon breath. He saw thanks, even if he wasn't sure he deserved it. He couldn't remember the last time someone had looked at him like that. The eyes of cowards, brown-nosers, and stuffy prudes were what he'd become used to. It was... refreshing, to see someone's eyes and know that what they felt was genuine. Genuine thanks, genuine naivety, genuine curiosity, concern, and kindness.

He hated it.

"We can't stay here forever." Milos walked towards a nearby cabinet at Eduard's back. "There's got to be something we can do..."

"We'll think on it and come up with a plan," said Eduard decisively. "For now, I'll collect my thoughts. I'll go for a walk."

"Me too. Think I'll head down to the docks and put out a couple feelers, see if anyone can remember seeing her if she's come through or can keep an eye out."

"As good an idea as any right now." With that, Milos stepped through the threshold of the door and hurried down the steps. Eduard waited until he could hear the door to the Winking Skeever open and shut before he slumped his shoulders and sighed. Like he could really go for a walk. Just the thought of his father and Eduard felt his heart become heavy.

Eduard procured his curved dagger from his belt and carefully removed his glove, then he placed a nearby piece of parchment on the ground, knelt, and drew the blade across his palm. He didn't wince. He'd done such a thing twice before. It no longer made him squirm like a child. Physical wounds were nothing.

"Dii sos wah fin denek." Eduard clenched his fist and let small droplets of blood hit the page. "Dii sos wah dii Bormah. Zu'u ofan dii sos fah hin zin. Zu'u, Lokbruniik, kul do Pahsahrot, dahmaan ulse." He waited patiently until the parchment was soaked in his blood, then he slowly folded it up and stuck it in one of the pouches on his belt. A small wound like the one he'd just inflicted upon himself meant nothing, even less when he healed himself with what little he knew in healing magics. But it was the very least he could do without the proper incense and ceremony. Surely his father would understand.

When everything was fastened and what little he had was stored safely away, Eduard descended the steps into the main hall where the townspeople were gathered, enjoying their drink and songs with merry fervour. The dragons were scarce now, having found shelter in the shadow of a mountain or a cave large enough for them to spread their wings, forced into hiding thanks to the end of Alduin. While the Dovahkiin's victory meant the dragons no longer had to answer to Alduin's command, it was made known Paarthurnax, Alduin's traitor brother, would not step into that role. He would remain to teach the mortals the Way of the Voice for as long as he lived. And the Dovahkiin, recognized by the dragons as Alduin's better, had no intention to continue his destruction.

 _"I told them what I felt,"_ the Dovahkiin said over a tankard of mead in the Frozen Hearth, months ago, soon after Alduin's defeat. Eduard remembered the way she began twirling a lock of her hair and avoided his gaze. Instead, she scrutinized her drink, which reflected her flush cheeks. He thought he could see the beginnings of bruising on her neck, and had briefly wondered how that got there, but it lead him back to when he'd once grabbed her by the throat and squeezed. If he'd just twisted his hand a touch, Alduin wouldn't have been defeated. _"The last time I went to see the Greybeards, they told me Paarthurnax requested me. So I climbed to the top. Wasn't just him there. They were... well, I don't know a better way to say it. 'Displeased' doesn't seem to encompass it. I listened to what they had to say. It was all in the Dragon Language, so what I didn't catch, Paarthurnax helped me to understand. And when I heard what they felt, I told them how I felt about it._

 _"I refused to allow them leave to burn homes and displace people, if they even lived. I tried to make them understand that people have lives. They aren't just... things. There are consequences. People will rally to fight a common enemy, and the dragons were intent to become that enemy. Worse still, they didn't care. Brought back to life, they couldn't give a damn. The Dragonborn is on their side. What fear had they?"_ She'd leaned back, but not too far, for she was conscious of the bench, since it didn't have a backrest. But she kept avoiding his eyes, this time settling them on the roof. _"I... didn't know what to say. So I said the first thing that came to my head: if you dare attack a settlement and I happen to be there, I will tear you from the sky and ensure you share Alduin's fate."_

 _"You threatened them,"_ replied Eduard matter-of-factly.

The Dovahkiin offered him a half smile, finally daring to glance in his direction. She dropped her hand, which had twisted her hair into a lazy, loose ringlet that bounced beside her face. _"I kept my people in line back in Anvil. My threats are promises and warnings. It's never something I want to carry out. But if I had to... I would."_

Eduard lowered his head as he stepped out of the Winking Skeever, and again he found his thoughts drifting to the Dovahkiin. Her eyes were so sad, so filled with regret Eduard couldn't fathom what she'd had to do, and in that moment he'd had no doubt she meant what she said.

One night, as they made camp beneath the stars, she'd asked him about his home. It was Skyrim, but a Skyrim long since passed, one she could hardly imagine. He thought he'd say as much, but his usual pessimism was struggling to rise. He'd spoken his memories, fresh in his mind yet so incredibly old and foreign, and she was hinged on every word.

 _"It was a grand temple dedicated to the dov,"_ said Eduard as he watched the Dovahkiin. She was throwing some salts onto a rabbit she'd trapped some hours earlier as it cooked above their fire. The night had been chilly, and they'd since re-purchased some tents. Some nights earlier, winds had torn them apart. Their bedrolls needed insulating too. _"I was born there to a mother I didn't know or care to know. My father was the only parent in my life, but there were a great many tutors that would teach us about our history, our worship of the dov, our legacy, and our destiny. The temple's outer courtyard was wide and spacious, and from it I could see the southern lands without hindrance. It looked best in the springtime. The inner workings were warm and busy. Sometimes it could be cramped, but we made do. Most of the young would not survive the winter anyway. Bas-reliefs and carvings of the strong who came before us adorned nearly every wall. The ones that weren't were hidden by stacks of books written in my language. I spent almost every day learning all I could, so eager to prove my worth..."_

 _"What did you want to be?"_ asked the Dovahkiin with such naivety Eduard had to stop to make certain she was not just mocking his reminiscing.

Assured, Eduard tried to find a response but couldn't scrape it together. It had always been his destiny to take up his father's mantle. He'd eliminated those closest to him to do so. There had been nothing else for him. His fate was assured from the moment he was born.

So Eduard hid himself behind a scoff and asked condescendingly, _"What did_ you _think you would become, Dovahkiin?"_

She turned the rabbit over to cook its other side and smiled. He was unsurprised she had an answer ready for him. _"I thought I'd become a sailor. There was nothing keeping me from it back home once I became of age. Could have hitched a ride with any old captain and his crew, but... I had responsibilities."_

 _"To whom?"_

The Dovahkiin avoided his eyes, instead watching the flames as they leapt and twirled around their supper. _"You know I lived in an orphanage. I wasn't the only one there, obviously. Couldn't just leave the kids. I just... couldn't."_

 _"They were not yours. You were not obligated to look after anyone but yourself."_

 _"You're right. And you're wrong. So, so wrong."_ She poked the fire with a stick, set it alight, then blew it out and repeated her process. Her hair was tied back loosely, so there was no chance she could obscure how she felt. He wasn't sure he liked seeing her that way, if he liked seeing her at all. _"I'd been there ever since I could remember. White marble stones, hundreds of cobblestones in the road, a temple so tall I thought it was touching the sky... I guess I started getting rebellious after the older kids left. Some joined up in the guilds, some became part of bandit clans. I hardly remember a time after that I wasn't infuriating the Madame and taking hits for the other kids, too small to defend themselves, too afraid to step in for me. I can remember some days I would hate them and wonder why I didn't just let them get hit, but it's just not in me to follow through with something like that._

 _"I couldn't wait to get on a boat and sail past the horizon, to never look back. Sometimes I'd manage to slip out of the city and go to this small house planted on a hill overlooking Anvil. I could see the sea best from there."_

And Eduard knew Milos was especially protective of the Dovahkiin. He was always at her side, anxious when she wasn't around... The priest was surprised the Argonian hadn't up and left to search for Dovahkiin, but he was agonizingly certain the Dovahkiin would find her way to Solitude. He'd been the one to carry her down from the summit of the Throat of the World and into High Hrothgar when she'd returned from Sovngarde, a broken and bloody mess. Until Eduard had laid eyes on her, he hadn't known someone could bleed so much and still have the ability to breathe.

Then Heimdall had swooped in and helped, doting over her like some sort of porcelain doll, but even with Heimdall Milos was loathe to hand her over. Eduard could really see the Argonian cared about her more than words could express, like a brother protecting his feeble sister.

When she was on the mend, Eduard had wandered to the west wing of High Hrothgar and hesitated by the stone doorframe leading to her room. Milos was helping her change her shirt, their backs to the priest. Eduard was not unfamiliar with the body of a woman, but he knew well enough he'd be unwelcome, even though she was clothed in all the important places. He'd nearly turned on his heel to leave when he saw Milos check her back. Eduard saw old scars there, like welts that had been broken a dozen times.

 _"These ones are new."_ Eduard saw the Argonian frown as his eyes narrowed.

The Dovahkiin waved him off stiffly. She couldn't raise her right arm too high. Most of her body was still bandaged up. _"I'm fine. They don't bother me."_

 _"They bother_ me _."_

 _"Milos, relax."_ She looked over her shoulder and flashed the Argonian a grin only they shared. Eduard bowed his head and began to retreat. _"I swear, they only look bad. They're really not. No worse than what I got from Alduin."_

The Argonian wrapped her in a hug from behind. Eduard disappeared around the corner, glad for his mask. It hid how guilty he felt for witnessing their intimacy, something he'd never quite experienced for himself. But he gritted his teeth. Why should he feel any sort of guilt? He was a Dragon Priest. Nothing else mattered.

A fool Nord with a braided beard skipped past Eduard, strumming his lute and howling a tune for all to hear. There was some sort of festival going on this particular day, and a hubbub of voices chorused from the Bard's College. Vendors had set up temporary stalls in its courtyard and harked their wares for every passerby they could lay eyes on. Eduard tried his best not to be one of them.

In no time at all, Eduard found himself on the battlements of Solitude's walls overlooking the lands. To the south he could view the city of Morthal, quiet as the grave from his distance. If the Dovahkiin was alive, what was taking her so long to arrive in Solitude?

What could possibly be more important?

_/-\\_

 _ **17 First Seed, 4E 202**_

"I don't believe this."

Serana was pacing rapidly in front of the iron bars that kept herself and Taryn imprisoned. Her hands were rubbing her arms to keep the cold from settling, not that she was bothered by it much. Meantime, Taryn at ease was lounging on some burlap sacks and watching her almost for entertainment's sake. Serana whirled and kicked the bars.

"Hey!" she shouted at the soldier enjoying his midday meal. "We're innocent! Unlock this door!"

The soldier scoffed and tucked into his bread. "Oh, of course! Would you also like a sweetroll, your highness?"

"You little—!" Serana bit her lip. She'd make the situation worse if she just ripped the bars away. She'd have no trouble escaping. The issue was she'd probably be leaving Taryn to die. Then she'd have quite a time finding her way back home without someone who knew the wilds of this land, especially since it had changed so much since she'd seen it last.

The Vampire huffed and sat on her bedroll across from Taryn. The Imperial was waiting patiently, confidently, unabated by the moist stone walls and the thick, heavy air. She was quite content where she was, as if she knew something even the guard didn't know. But they'd been there an entire day. And while Serana worried into her cloak, she couldn't help but feel both envy and annoyance at Taryn's nonchalant attitude towards their imprisonment. She'd been that way since they were arrested, so calm and cool.

"This isn't the first time you've been arrested, is it?" Serana asked her, finally looking to break the silence. She kept her voice low so the guard wouldn't hear.

Taryn imitated her whisper and responded, "No. It's about the..." She counted her fingers and mumbled. "Oh, about the fourth time. First two were in Cyrodiil, after I nearly bit a man's ear off as a child, then for picking up a wheel of cheese from a shopkeeper's floor. He thought I was taking it, but I was doing him a favour. So unhygienic..." She tapped her chin softly. "Then I was caught crossing the border and brought to Helgen for execution with the Stormcloaks—lovely lads—but managed to escape. Every other one was a bloody kidnapping."

"There were kidnappings?" the Vampire replied, a bit more dryly than she'd meant to.

"Oh, yeah. Let's see... Arnand Bienne... The Thalmor _and_ Arnand Bienne... Calcelmo... Those Vampires in your lovely little resting place... Did I miss any?"

"I'm beginning to think tagging along with you isn't in my best interest."

"Only now?"

"We're going to have a _very_ long discussion if we get out of this."

The Imperial shrugged with a very aloof smile. "We will. Just give it time."

Serana crossed her arms and leaned in a bit more closely to Taryn. "What's your plan?" she asked inquisitively.

"It's already been a whole day," replied Taryn, "and by now they would have noticed the strange effects of the sun on Laelette's corpse. They'd want to investigate it and the grave digging. If they have good eyes, they'll notice the grave was dug up with the gravedigger's own hands. They'll want to inspect under our fingernails to be sure, but Laelette's claws will have a bunch of dirt and muck. Provided, of course, if they manage to find her arms before they dry up in the sunlight. At that point we might be exonerated and go on our merry way."

"And let's pretend, for a moment, it doesn't go exactly according to your assumptions."

"Then we've brought along a man of the Vigil of Stendarr to identify the Vampire's body for certain."

Serana lowered her voice even further, annoyed. "He can't even tell what I am!"

" _You_ don't exactly look like you're wanting to float around and swoop down upon unwary mortals. Laelette died looking like a daedra reject. It'll be easier to see in the daytime." For the first time since they were locked up, Taryn's expression darkened. "There will be more. And Alva must be one of them, too. You saw how eager she was to get us locked up. That, and Helgi mentioned her."

It wasn't just the Vampires Taryn seemed to be souring in her mood about. Serana could remember the night clearly: the moment Laelette was dead, Serana saw concern for Helgi return above that fury she kept locked inside, but Helgi saw her eyes—her monstrous eyes—and disappeared in a gasp. Maybe Taryn herself hadn't known, but Serana saw that hurt, and saw how she shoved it aside to make sure Serana herself was well.

The first and foremost thing about this woman was ensuring those around her were safe. Had that always been the case, or was this borne of Taryn's lycanthropy? Serana couldn't be sure, and it just didn't feel right to ask.

"So..." Taryn's smile returned, though Serana questioned its authenticity. "Home. Your home. Tell me about it. More than just the approximate location off Skyrim's coast, I mean."

"No."

Taryn set her chin on her fist. "Why so secretive?"

"I'm not being secretive. I don't want to talk about it. I just have to get back there, and that's all you really need to know."

"I need to know if I'll be led to another lovely prison. Pretty sure that water dripping in my last cell nearly made me go insane, so I'd prefer to avoid it."

"Believe me, not one person there wants a lycan hanging around."

"Probably a bunch of Vampires then, hm?"

" _Shh_!" hissed Serana, and glanced towards the guard. But he was too enthralled with his meal to really care about them. "Yes, fine, that's where we're going. Now can you please stop prying?"

"Honestly, what else is there to do?"

"Anything. Anything else."

Taryn clicked her tongue, but despite the curious look in her eyes she shrugged and gave in. "As you wish."

The door to the prison groaned inward. The wind swept sparse particles of snow inside, as well as cold air that made Taryn shiver, but Serana didn't seem particularly disturbed. The men that entered the threshold were more soldiers of the Hold, and made brief conversation with their comrade while Heniel stepped in and up to the bars.

"Familiar sight, isn't it?" jested Taryn to the boy.

Heniel stepped up and clenched his hands around the bars. To his credit, he looked stern, an expression he could rarely muster.

"You two..." His knuckles were white. "Did you murder that woman? Did you dig up that grave?!"

Serana paled. What could they tell him? What could they trust him with? But Taryn leaned back and smiled. Was this her plan? Bringing that boy in on it?

"I think you know the answer, Heniel."

"I want to hear it from your mouth."

"Very well then. No, we didn't kill her out of cold blood. No, we didn't desecrate the grave. It was like that when we got there. Laelette was trying to get after Helgi's body."

"Then why were you outside at such an hour?"

"We were investigating strange noises. I told Serana to stay back but she insisted on coming with me."

Heniel released the bars and glanced over his shoulder at the guardsmen talking amongst themselves. His shoulders sagged. "I believe you," he muttered, "but it's been a challenge to get the folk here to. A woman reported to the jarl you'd been seen poking around those ruins."

"Alva." Taryn stood up and stretched her legs. She peered towards the soldiers, felt their open hostility. "You're a Vigilant of Stendarr, Heniel. I imagine you were taken by the guard, questioned, and managed to convince them with your position to investigate the body to clear our names. And you discovered Laelette's a Vampire by the body that was left behind."

The boy nodded. "It's as you say. I petitioned the jarl to have you released and put on trial with the evidence I've gathered, and she's agreed. Charming woman, if a tad unsettling."

"I'll ask questions about that later. So I imagine they're our escorts?" she asked, referring to the men speaking with the jailor.

"Aye." Heniel rubbed the back of his head, using his fingers to battle his way through his unruly and unkempt hair. "And they made certain to spread the word you both would be getting a trial. As you can imagine, people are up in arms. There are soldiers from the Empire here on leave who volunteered to help quell the crowd."

"So much for laying low..." Serana mumbled gravely.

"Yes, I didn't expect a crowd. But I imagine the jarl hasn't been able to suppress the crowd unfortunate enough to see the body." Taryn set her chin on her fist again. "With so much anger around, the jarl will have difficulty presiding over a fair trial."

"Then tell me your side of the story." Heniel pursed his lips. "I know what the evidence has told me, but I need to hear your side."

Serana glanced in Taryn's direction. _Please don't mention the ghost girl, please don't mention the ghost girl..._

"I went to the stables in the evening, thought I heard something near the remains of that house, so I went to investigate. When nothing was there I left for the inn. Later, since I couldn't get it out of my head, I thought I'd look once more and make sure it wasn't just some skeevers getting too close to the town. Serana wanted to come with me, so we left the inn, followed the noises, and discovered Laelette digging up that grave. When we realized she was a Vampire, we killed her."

"And how did you realize that?"

"She bit Serana."

Heniel paled, his eyes focusing on the Vampire before him. "D-Do you mean...?"

"I have very rudimentary healing abilities, so the worst was taken care of." Taryn indicated the scar on Serana's neck. The Vampire kept silent. If the Imperial figured she knew what she was talking about, let her talk. She'd just play along. "She should be fine in a couple of days. Even better, she hasn't drank any of my blood while we've been here. Think she got lucky there."

"Stendarr's Mercy..." The Breton sighed, his grip relaxing. "All right. I'll figure something out. But this may be difficult."

"Wouldn't be fun if it wasn't." She flashed a wry smile. "Very well then. Are we to head there now?" Already she could hear unrest outside, and undoubtedly so could Serana. The Vampire pursed her lips anxiously.

"What time is it?" interjected Serana before Heniel could answer Taryn.

"Midday," answered Heniel. "And yes, we'll be heading there now." Heniel signalled for the guards waiting impatiently nearby. They had to get the jailor to find his key, which was made difficult thanks to the grease on his hands from his meal.

In the meantime, Taryn leaned over to Serana and quietly whispered, "Are you going to be okay in the sunlight?"

It would be too suspicious if she lifted her cloak over her face. Certainly, some would take that as her shame, but if they were also bringing forth Vampires it would cast some doubt on their side of the story.

She glanced between Heniel and Taryn, then nodded shortly. "Doesn't affect purebloods like others," she offered.

The prison door swung open, Taryn waited until the soldiers had instructed them to get to their feet before she carefully stood up. Serana followed her example. The guards kept Taryn and Serana's hands behind their backs to slap iron shackles on, then ungracefully shoved them through the cell's door and out into the open, Heniel not far behind.

The town was gathered in uproar. The millers had stopped their work to gather and spit on the ground in front of the prisoners. Serana wondered if any food would be thrown at them, but it was precious in the marshy wastes, so it wasn't wasted on the likes of them. Several times the crowd surged and tried to get past the Imperial soldiers blocking their path, but they were thwarted by the soldiers' threatening blades. Serana's knees were weak. The sunlight beating down on her was giving her a headache. Taryn managed to position herself so the majority of the sun would shine on her, and shielded Serana from the majority of the rays.

They were finally escorted up the stairs and through the threshold of the jarl's longhouse. A long fireplace was erected in the centre, burning brightly to help illuminate the darker corners that candlelight was absent. Beyond it, the jarl lounged in her chair, eyeing the two suspiciously. Taryn did the same to scrutinize her. Of this jarl she knew very little, only that Jarl Balgruuf would make mention of her "visions". Idgrod Ravencrone was well-known for such a thing, and there were talks her son Joric was able to see visions as well. Her greying hair was tied back, fully framing her old and weathered face. Her clothes were fine, but not unpractical. She was dignified even without the use of a jewelled circlet.

"Bring the accused forward." Her voice was rough, but not unkind. The soldiers escorted Taryn and Serana towards Jarl Idgrod, ensuring they were at least eight feet from her throne. Then people began filing in. Mill workers, a few more soldiers, a mage, and most prominently Thonnir, Laelette's widower. His arms were crossed, and he glared viciously at the two imprisoned women. "And you, boy," said Idgrod, gesturing to Heniel. "You don't have to introduce yourself. We've spoken already."

"My thanks, Jarl Ravencrone." Heniel bowed and stood alongside Taryn and Serana. The former gave him a playful nudge to help alleviate any fears he had.

"Thonnir, husband of Laelette, please step forward." As Thonnir began to approach, Idgrod added, "Leave your axe."

He bristled. "Jarl, I don't trust them! They may have some sort of magic they can work."

"That's why I'm here," assured the mage Taryn had noticed. "I'll make sure there are no tricks."

"With you here," shot back Thonnir, "I have my doubts."

"Enough!" Idgrod snapped, her voice stern but not raised. "We're here for the trial of these newcomers, not Falion. You will surrender your axe or lose your right to speak, Thonnir."

With great and obvious reluctance, Thonnir surrendered his weapon to a Morthal guard and stepped beside Serana, though he put some space between himself and her. Idgrod motioned for the crowd to quiet. The people who couldn't cram themselves into the longhouse were watching from the stairs outside and telling those who couldn't see what was going on. When finally the crowd was hushed, Idgrod allowed Thonnir to speak.

And Thonnir was only glad to. "These monsters murdered my wife, dismembered her, and dug up young Helgi's grave! Outsiders have no place here with good folk! Laelette deserves justice!"

A chorus of agreement rang out around him. Undoubtedly everyone had known and worked alongside Laelette.

Idgrod stopped him. "Instead of riling everyone up, tell us how you stumbled upon the body of Laelette."

"Jarl, I was outside my home once my son was in bed. As everyone well knows, I took Laelette's departure from Morthal to join the Civil War with difficulty. She could not be seen again in Morthal, not unless the Stormcloaks took the Hold, or the war. But I searched endlessly, and carried a torch so she might see me if she returned." He clenched his fists at his sides, but his gaze didn't waver. "That night I heard screaming. I didn't think it to be Laelette, but it startled me and I thought to investigate it. I met some soldiers and other folk along the way. When we arrived in the cemetary, Laelette was... Laelette...!" He choked on a sob. " _She was butchered_!"

"But you didn't see the fight?" Idgrod asked calmly.

"No, Jarl Idgrod, but they were covered in blood. There was no doubt what they'd done."

The jarl nodded solemnly. "Very well. Thank-you, Thonnir. Now I'll ask the same of these strangers." Her dark eyes settled on the Imperial, Nord, and Breton lined up side-to-side. "Tell me about what happened. All of it. Lie, and I'll know."

"Nothing to lie about." Serana half-expected Taryn to flash a grin and try to charm the jarl, but the Imperial's stature was serious. "We were passing through Morthal for work, to feed our horses, and resupply for the journey to Solitude. We thought we'd stay an extra night because of the cold. I left Serana in the room we shared and Heniel in his, then went outside to care for the horses."

"And what was Serana and Heniel doing at this time?" asked Idgrod.

Serana kept her nervousness down, as she'd been trained centuries before. "I was reading in bed," said the Nord. "Hadn't been feeling very well lately, so I just wanted to rest."

"And I was praying in my room," added Heniel. "I'm part of the Vigil of Stendarr. I..." He looked at Taryn. "I just lost my mentor. But I've known Taryn for years, so when our paths crossed again I took it as a sign from the Divines and followed her."

Idgrod glanced at a blonde woman in the crowd, and when she gave the slightest nod, she asked for the story to proceed.

"When I was in the stables I heard strange noises and looked around. I thought they were coming from that abandoned house, so I peeked inside. I thought some children might have snuck out and were playing there. I don't have to tell anyone in Morthal how dangerous that could be. But when I looked around there was no one. I met Alva there as I was leaving and she asked I stay away from it. I left for the inn and met up with Serana, but then we heard more noises. I was already curious and wanted to investigate again."

"And I thought I'd come along to keep her out of trouble," Serana added.

"As you can imagine I'm very good at attracting it." She offered a slight smile to Serana. "We heard the sounds coming from the graveyard. A child's coffin was unearthed. I got closer to see if the remains had been disturbed further. Then we were attacked by Laelette."

"How dare you—!"

"Thonnir!" Idgrod stopped him. Her voice raised, she was indeed an intimidating old woman. "Be silent until they've spoken their side."

Although Thonnir clearly wanted to argue, he kept his mouth shut. There would be plenty of time for it.

"She's not the Laelette you knew," Heniel chimed in. "After the fight when my companions were arrested, I asked to investigate the scene. Jarl Idgrod gave me leave, so I examined everything. Yes, the body was mutilated. But not undeservingly. Laelette was a Vampire. That is why she went missing. Something turned her, and she served it loyally because it was her nature." When Thonnir looked like he was going to respond, Heniel continued: "Take a look at the body for yourself. Once the sun came out it started to burn, so we took it to an enclosed environment. The hands had claws, her face was distorted, and she took a chunk out of Serana's neck."

Serana noticed some people step away from her. She sighed. _Thanks, Heniel._

"And I was getting to that part," said Taryn. "I told Serana to stand back. I'm escorting her to her home, so I didn't want her to get hurt. Laelette was fast, but by the Gods' graces I managed to keep myself safe. I cut her right arm off, cut through her torso, then I chopped off her left arm. Unfortunately Serana was being an idiot and decided to help. Yes, Laelette bit her. She's got bandages on her neck and blood that came from it. I don't know a lot, but I dabble in healing magic. In my line of work knowledge of healing's a bit of a necessity. After Laelette was dead I looked Serana over to see if she was diseased and then healed her. Thankfully she wasn't turned. If you'd like an example she and I can walk through daylight again."

"That _boy_ ," snarled Thonnir, "is in league with them! My wife was no Vampire!"

"Someone turned her," argued Taryn, "and I think I know who it was."

Idgrod leaned forward on her throne. Another glance at the blonde woman, another slight nod. "Pray, tell."

"Two of your number is not among you. All the town has come to watch us burn at the stake except for two. One being Hroggar. Before you ask, I know about him because of rumours. No one in this place is exactly quiet with gossip. The second, his lovely friend Alva. I mentioned how I'd seen her at the ruins of that house, yes?" Taryn waited and gauged the reactions around her. "I didn't see her breath on the air that night. And I've never seen her during the daytime. One investigation is all I'm asking. Look in her house and see if anything's found. If not, then I'm wrong. But if I'm right then you have the real monster, and it was one who lived among you."

The jarl stared fiercely at them. The folk behind them were chattering and trying to wrap their heads around Taryn's words. Serana watched them with interest. The walls of the inn were fairly thin, and she recalled many times when the residents would talk about Hroggar moving in with Alva only a day after his wife and child died. It at least cast enough doubt.

The blonde woman approached Idgrod. "I told you I saw nothing but trouble from that woman," she said sternly.

Idgrod nodded. "Aye. I sensed it too. But clearly not as well as you." She sighed. "Argi, take some soldiers and look at Alva's home. Take Aslfur with you. I trust you two will find the truth there, if these travellers are lying, or if there may be some legitimacy to their claim."


	12. The Coven

Chapter Eleven:

The Coven

 _ **17 First Seed, 4E 202**_

Idgrod Ravencrone reclined against her throne and leisurely flipped through the pages of the journal she had clutched in her gnarled, weathered hands. Her dark eyes took in every word with great interest, then carefully peeled through page after page to the end. She shut the leather-bound thing in her hand, the only sound in the room besides the crackling of fire. The majority of the townsfolk within the longhouse were silent on bated breath.

Taryn hoped she'd found something. Honestly, she'd been grasping at straws. Her plan was weak, flimsy, and would be easily derailed if something else came up, but what choice did they have? A bounty on their heads? A life on the run? She already had a county annoyed with her. A hold would just be annoying. So she'd been just as quiet as the residents once Aslfur handed his wife a small, leather-bound journal.

"This is enough, I would think," said Ravencrone, "to prove the innocence of these travellers." Before Thonnir could respond, clearly angered, Idgrod continued, "This journal belongs to Alva. It proves she was a Vampire, turned by another nearby. It details her plans, and her crimes. She was involved in Hroggar's family's deaths, because she turned Thonnir's wife Laelette, then lied about her departure to the Stormcloaks." Murmurs broke out across the room. "Just as well, my husband Aslfur and my sister Argi Farseer have notified me of the events within Alva's home. Hroggar was there, mad with lust, and has been taken to the prison. The basement of Alva's home contained a considerable amount of coffins, but Alva was nowhere in sight."

"We believe," added Aslfur, "Alva has fled to the Vampire coven. She may have known we were coming, or she may be speaking with her master about moving the plan forward. Either way, she is no longer in Morthal."

"And she is no longer welcome." Idgrod handed Aslfur the journal. "Which leaves us with a more distressing problem: the defence of our home."

An Imperial Legate stepped forward from the crowd. Taryn could tell as much from his armour, which she recognized as similar to what Legate Rikke had worn at the war council with the Greybeards.

"If I may speak, Jarl Ravencrone?" he asked politely. When Idgrod motioned he could, he cleared his throat. "The Empire still has a hold on this town. We could use whatever garrisoned troops are nearby."

"Then the Stormcloaks would overrun what's left, and we lost Hjaalmarch's only trained Imperial soldiers. It's the Vampires or the Stormcloaks, maybe even both." Idgrod grumbled in annoyance. "Your offer is appreciated, Taurnius, but unnecessary."

"Then what can we do against them?" asked Falion. "Even if there are those who would prefer the Stormcloaks over the Imperials, if we refuse their help our town could be nothing more than a feeding ground for those things!"

"This isn't your town, mage!" snapped someone from within the crowd, which incited an uproar throughout the longhouse.

 _Okay, everything's feeling a bit tense here,_ Taryn thought as she watched the Imperial soldiers keep the crowd contained. _I'm not sure, but..._

"Jarl Idgrod?" Taryn asked. She thought the woman may not have heard her, but the old woman swivelled her head towards Taryn as Aslfur began scolding her subjects. "Why not use us?"

No one beyond Idgrod and Argi could really hear the inquiry, save for Heniel and Serana, who shot looks at Taryn. The Imperial shrugged.

"Look, you know we have skills enough to kill Vampires, and that was just myself and Serana. Heniel is young but he's part of the Vigil. He has knowledge others lack. If we run into their lair with torches and pitchforks it'll be a massacre. There's no intelligence on their numbers or how many of them are Master Vampires. We're strangers, we're skilled, and these people, for the most part, want us out of town."

"So you're just doing this out of the goodness of your heart?" Argi asked, and folded her arms across her chest.

"Not what I said. All I ask is some money upon the completion and safe travels out of town. We want to get on our way and out of yours."

Idgrod rubbed her chin. Her sister leaned towards her ear and whispered, though Argi's eyes never left Taryn.

Serana glared at Taryn. "Why don't we get a say in this?!"

"Do you _want_ to see this place overrun with those beasts?! Heniel countered.

"No, but this isn't our problem. She keeps dragging me into these things!"

In response, Taryn shrugged and tapped her neck. _You bit me, so you owe me,_ she communicated. Serana sighed and let her shoulders sag.

"That's not fair..." she grumbled. But she didn't have any other ideas beyond tearing through everyone to safety. Not fair? What was she, a child? But in all seriousness, she and Taryn would have a talk _at length_ about communication in the future.

"I think we can come to an agreement," said Idgrod, "but we have no assurances you three won't just take off. For that reason, I'll send along any volunteers who want to help."

"Just as well," added Argi, "we don't want to lose any more townsfolk here to the threat. Searching aimlessly with mere volunteers would put them at risk, yet sending soldiers would leave us defenceless."

"Argi," said Idgrod, "take care to remember: sitting on our arses and twiddling our thumbs about the pros and cons is all well and good, but we must take actions or we're only wasting time. I'm standing by my decision. Soldiers or the good folk from Morthal, if they volunteer, will join them to find the den."

Heniel spoke up, "If you would only provide me with a map of the region with markers nearby as to caves or abandoned forts, I could help narrow down the search area."

"That man Hroggar might know a thing or two as well," suggested Legate Taurinus. "He spent enough time with Alva. And I can have men posted nearby to keep an eye out for her, in case she makes a return."

"At this point, it's unlikely." Idgrod gestured with her hand. "Very well. The decision's been made. Aslfur, provide young Heniel with a map of Hjaalmarch. Gorm, provide him with the necessary information on strange disappearances or deaths since Alva's arrival. No, a month hence. Taurinus, unchain those women then inform your soldiers of their orders. No man should be held in disregard if he has no wish to volunteer to hunt the bastards down."

Everyone moved in a flash all at once. In moments, a fair amount of men and women from the territory had volunteered their swords and axes to help. Serana and Taryn were released, and Heniel quickly began studying the information he'd been given. The only ones who hadn't moved were Argi and Thonnir, who had his fists clenched.

He glared at the two women. "I don't believe Laelette was a Vampire. But if this proves true..."

"Whatever you wonder your wife had done in the time she was gone," said Taryn, "it wasn't her. She was already gone. At least take some comfort in that."

"I shall find no comfort in it, but perhaps our son will. He's too young to be told, even if she was one of those creatures."

"Ask Alva yourself," suggested Taryn. "Join us. Help us save your home. Besides, I doubt you want us out of your sight so quickly, hm?"

_/-\\_

 _ **17 First Seed, 4E 202**_

"My patience was wearing thin when you allowed the townsfolk to become suspicious of your pet," said Movarth, his pale hand brushing away Alva's own. "Now it's at its end."

"Movarth—." Alva collected herself. Her panic was showing. "Movarth, I couldn't have known what would happen."

The Master Vampire turned to Alva. His glare was penetrating. "But you could have controlled the outcome, my dear Alva. That's why I sent _you_ , not one of the others. Because my trust in you has never wavered before now." He saw Alva's face fall. _Pretty thing,_ he thought. _Even now._ Movarth exposed his fangs slightly to her. "And now the folk of that shit hole are on our trail, all because of a few strangers."

"One was a Vampire herself, though none like I've ever seen!" exclaimed Alva, desperate to defend herself. "She was powerful and pale, but not—not sickly-looking like—!" _Like you, Movarth._ Alva stopped herself just in time as Movarth released the barest of a snarl. "I-I did not see the battle, but though she was wounded, I could see her holding back her power. After that I fled."

"And the other one there?"

"Some Imperial. She was odd, but I didn't see anything out of the ordinary. I thought she might be a thrall when they rode into the village, along with that robed boy, but they didn't act as such."

Movarth had wandered from Alva through the cave, claws brushing against the rock and leaving a thin trail of scratches in his wake. Alva followed. Certainly he would spare her. He was the one who saved her from the dreary, boring life that laid ahead of her in the first place. He had to forgive her. She wasn't the one who ruined everything. It was Laelette! And she got what she deserved for that failure.

"Turimar." A dunmer stepped out of the shadows in absolute silence, then took a knee before Movarth. The dunmer's eyes glinted in Alva's direction, orange orbs glaring. "Please take Alva elsewhere."

"But Movarth—!"

Movarth turned to her and unleashed a growl so terrifying Alva was certain the walls themselves shirked away at it. Without another word Turimar had grabbed Alva and removed her from Movarth's main chamber. His thralls, each Nord with crude weapons, watched Alva go with interest. Movarth didn't bother casting a glance her way once his display was finished.

His hand brushed the wood of his table, placed in the centre of the table with five sturdy seats on either side of it, except for the one at the head. Movarth made his way there and sank into his seat. With a lazy wave of his hand, he beckoned the two Nords forward.

"Investigate outside. Ensure we're safe at least for the day. We can't leave until nightfall."

Wordlessly the Nords made their way out. How long before the citizens of Morthal gathered a mob? They were just villagers, and with the war going on, he was certain the jarl would make no move to send real soldiers inside. He may have put the affairs of mortals behind him, but the war was hard to miss. And he remembered much from his time as a trainer of the Fighter's Guild in Cyrodiil, so he knew the importance of victory.

Time passed in the blink of an eye for Movarth, who could waste a day without so much as a thought, but even he realized how his thralls hadn't yet returned. He stood in his chair and focused his senses outward, mostly towards where they'd gone. He heard the soft crunching of pebbles underfoot, but it was obvious whomever it was wasn't his thralls. He knew immediately they were dead. The steady breathing of the person drawing near was what he focused on. Woman, he could discern. Mortal, for he could hear her heartbeat. His nostrils flared. Her smell wasn't quite right.

"Skulking around in the dark will do you no good. I can hear you coming," called Movarth, and his hand rested on the hilt of the sword at his side.

The woman seemed to consider this, but in no time at all she stood and walked towards reservedly. Her own hand found the curved hilt of her blade. A tall Imperial woman, dark hair, scar across her face, but otherwise unremarkable. Well-armed, certainly, but someone like Movarth with centuries of experience in the craft knew by a look that this woman was still unused to the weapon. So far she'd been lucky.

"Thought you might," admitted the woman with a shrug. "I've spent enough time around your kind to understand that much."

"Yet you still attempted."

"Trying to get a read on you. Survey your weaknesses. Think I found some."

Movarth snorted. "Then you're delusional, woman."

She smirked. "Perhaps. Want to test that theory?"

Movarth had begun to pull his sword from its sheathe when the woman whispered something beneath her breath, and at first he thought it might be an uncouth insult, but the Imperial bust forth suddenly like a gale of wind and slammed her curved blade into his steel sword. If his heart still beat, he thought it might lurch. He managed to collect his thoughts and prevent her fist from driving into his right side, but was taken aback by the foot that caught his ankle and yanked his balance out from under him.

Movarth smashed his knee into the dirt and thrust a blast of lightning from his palm with a furious snarl. The Imperial leapt away, twisting her body to land a blow on his temple, but failing when he rolled away.

How long had it been since Movarth had been covered in dirt, rustling up dust? Too long, he felt, especially with a greenhorn like that woman pushing him back. Nonetheless, he knew his abilities were greater than hers. He had centuries of experience under his belt. And this woman? Barely out of girlhood and thinking she could save the world.

Movarth blocked another strike at his head and whipped his hand at her face. The slap echoed, bouncing across the walls. His fingers stung, but he imagined not nearly as much as her face. The Imperial spun with the force until her back was exposed, and Movarth lunged forward to drive his sword into her back. But she surprised him again. Another word and his sword passed through her. The move didn't kill her, instead she was like a ghost, transparent yet clearly visible. She sighed a breath of relief and stepped casually out of his thrust. In a moment she'd returned to solid form.

"That nearly did me in," she said, her voice betraying her relief. "Knew I shouldn't have taken you so lightly. I read the book about you, you know. Old Madame used to threaten to feed us kids to Movarth if we misbehaved. Suppose since I was the bad apple I should have met you some time ago."

Movarth was still trying to wrap his head around what had just happened. This woman was mumbling something under her breath, and then some sort of... abilities helped her.

She levelled her sword at him, clearly ready to begin anew. He needed to see more. An opponent like her, with more tricks up her sleeve than real skill... Movarth hadn't fought one of her kind in decades. Worse still, no one that did battle with him smirked as she did, and he interpreted it as both an invitation and a smugness exclusive to herself.

What made her so confident? Her abilities? Her apparent lack of any fight-or-flight instincts?

"What's your name?" Movarth asked. The words had left his mouth before he could stop himself.

She shrugged. The smirk remained in place, a glint in her eye Movarth recognized. "Taryn," she answered.

Movarth nodded and readied his blade. His interest was piqued. He wanted to see more.

Another whisper, and suddenly Movarth was having difficulty keeping up with her swings. His Vampiric power aided him, but he thought he'd have been overwhelmed if he hadn't had centuries of experience behind the blade as well. When her sword arm slowed Movarth pressed his advantage and shot another stream of lightning at her from his palm. The woman was struck and tossed back into the cold wall, sword raised for another possible attack. Movarth met her blade with his and pushed her harder into the rocks. She showed her discomfort on her face but didn't even give herself a moment before her knee came up and smashed hard into his hip.

Movarth kept in the back of his mind her abilities, but she was cornered, and if she had another trick up her sleeve she would have used it by now. So Movarth grinned.

"Found an end to the bag of tricks?" he goaded her, pushing their swords a bit closer to her neck.

"W-Well..." Tary struggled against him. Her eyes darted about the room. It looked like she couldn't find an out. "Still... trying to... find one!"

"Tricks do not win a battle."

"Good ones... do!" A glint in her eye. A spark of something. Fuel enough to give her the strength to shove Movarth away. Surprised, the Vampire staggered into his table and upset the placements with a loud clatter. He narrowly avoided the tip of her sword by lunging aside, again ending up on his knee. But her sword had been driven deep into the wood. It had been meant as a killing blow.

Movarth struck out his foot and tripped her before she could struggle for her sword. She landed on her back in the dirt, a gasp slipping from her. Taryn raised her foot as Movarth leapt at her, planted it on his chest, and in the same movement yanked a dagger from her boot to block the incoming blow to her head.

"You're out of all your good ones, child."

"Give me a minute and I'll pull something that'll impress you. After all..." She smirked. _What an overconfident little brat._ "You're stalling. Not using your magic as much as Alva said you would."

"Alva?" Movarth's brow furrowed, but his weight was still wholly on his blade, readying for when the woman inevitably would shove him off with the foot on his chest. _I could break it. Might save me some trouble._

"She told us... everything we'd need to know."

"We?"

The woman shoved him as he'd expected. Just as he reached to grab her ankle, he felt the flesh in his back pierce and bleed. Movarth shouted painfully. What was he pushed onto?! There was nothing behind him!

A hand on his shoulder shoved him towards Taryn. It looked as though she may stab him. Movarth snarled and dug his claws into the ground before she could to alter his momentum and avoid her attack. But he was mistaken. It was a slash.

Another wound, this one on his arm, opened up and bled quickly onto the ground. The wounds ached. The smell of his own blood repulsed him. Movarth felt fury build up in his chest like a flame.

"Took your time," he heard Taryn say with a bit of relief.

"You weren't supposed to start fighting until I got here," expressed the other woman.

Movarth turned to watch them. Taryn shrugged nonchalantly. "He heard me. Can't stop my heart from beating, can I?"

The other woman, the Vampire Alva had described earlier, offered an arm to help Taryn up. Alva may not have known, but Movarth did. One did not live as long as he had without at least being aware of the clans.

" _Volkihar_ ," Movarth growled at the Vampire. "How dare you interfere! How dare you push yourself into my plans!"

"Honestly, we were just passing through. I got roped into this." The Volkihar Vampire wiped Movarth's blood off her dagger with a mix of annoyance and disgust.

"Don't blame me. You offered," exclaimed the Imperial.

Movarth watched their exchange as he waited for his wounds to mend themselves. Slowly, yes, but surely. The Imperial was no thrall but the two were travelling together, that much was obvious. And she was speaking so informally with the Volkihar. What was going on?

A blast of lightning struck Movarth, slowing his healing tremendously. He twitched and spasmed onto the ground, frothing and spitting as he shouted. The Volkihar watched him disdainfully. Of course she would know he was healing. He cursed his luck. Finally he'd brought a clan together. Finally his plans were in motion. A steady feeding ground and life for his kind. What more could he have asked for? Then this... interference.

He'd been a trainer at the Fighter's Guild once. Hunted Vampires for pleasure and sport until he became one. And this was to be his end? In some cave, killed by two bantering women?

Another shock wracked his body. They'd found time between sentences to give him another zap. How considerate.

"Taryn, just—." The Volkihar pursed her lips and shook her head. "As soon as we get out of here, you're taking me home. Understood?"

"We have to let Morthal know the threat has ended first. Besides, it only took a while getting here because those townspeople mucked up the tracks."

Movarth struggled to get to his feet. His heart may not have been beating, but he was gasping all the same. The Volkihar sighed and sheathed her dagger. Movarth began gathering his energy into his palm, but before he could release it the Volkihar was upon him. Her hand was clasped around his neck in an iron grip. She applied just a bit more pressure before Movarth could—.

_/-\\_

 _ **17 First Seed, 4E 202**_

The evening went on uninterrupted in the tavern of the Winking Skeever. The funds Heimdall had brought for Milos and Eduard bought them another week's boarding while they awaited the arrival of the Dovahkiin. A town's inn was the likely place to search first, so they stayed put in the city while awaiting her, Milos with hope and optimism, Eduard with annoyance and crass comments.

Nonetheless, Eduard didn't make a point to rain on Milos' parade. The closeness between Milos and the Dovahkiin was only to be expected. He saw no benefit of picking a fight with the Argonian.

Unfortunately, that was not the case with some folk.

Eduard, seated at the bar and staring directly ahead, was not a witness to the commotion behind him until it became louder than the music, and turned to look over his shoulder when the tunes stopped abruptly and yelling doused the singing.

There were three men, Eduard saw. By their dress, farmhands, possibly, as they were young men, Nords all. From what Eduard could determine, the argument came about because Milos and a young woman were getting a tad close for the three's comfort. And they were more likely to act on it because of their drunken states, enraged and staggering.

The Dragon Priest was making his way through alongside the bartender, matched in pace and shouldering their way through the evening's crowd, as a bottle shattered.

One of the young men was holding the bottle as it discharged its contents, pointing it threateningly at Milos, who kept his eyes on that man and took a careful step back.

"Break it up! Not in my bar! Break it up!" Corpulus Vinius, the bartender, got between Milos and the three men. "Erlen! Put that down!"

"You tell that damned filthy mer to keep his hands off my sister!" Erlen spat furiously, waving the bottle about. "Get him out or they'll drag him out in pieces!"

"I never touched your sister. We were just making conversation—."

"I saw the way you looked at her! _Disgusting_!"

"Erlen!" Corpulus grabbed the young man's hand which gripped the bottle like a blade. "Unless you want to be banned from my business, you'll drop that and take this outside to settle like men. There's no fighting in the Skeever."

"But—!"

"I don't care! Erlen, outside now, or I'm calling the guards to drag you and your damn friends out."

"But not him?! Not that bastard?!" Erlen gestured angrily at Milos, who crossed his arms.

"As I said, take it outside like men!"

Erlen sneered at Milos. "Fine. Fine! You, meet me outside the Skeever! And bring a mate with you, if you've got one! We're settling this with our fists!" Erlen shoved the broken bottle into Corpulus' hands and stormed out with his two friends, each glaring darkly at the Argonian a head-and-a-half taller than them.

Milos glanced in Eduard's direction. "Lend a hand?" he asked.

"Look over a chance to beat some Nords into the ground? Never."

Assured, Milos led the way outside. A small crowd of patrons seemed inclined to follow, but Corpulus stopped them in their tracks. Milos and Eduard followed the brash boys around the Winking Skeever and around the back, into a darkened and secluded area. Erlen obviously chose the bulkier of his friends to help him and shooed the other further back.

"No weapons. Just our fists." Erlen cracked his knuckles. "That means no claws for you, _beast_."

Milos unclasped the belt of his greatsword's sheathe and let it fall carelessly to the ground. Eduard tossed his dagger with some care atop it. "I don't need claws to beat your scrawny ass back to your mother's teat," snarled Milos.

The prelude gave Eduard a chance to scan their surroundings. There were some old barrels stacked behind the boys, and the area was just wide enough that he and Milos could fight shoulder-to-shoulder, albeit uncomfortably. The boys would have an advantage there.

"We'll need to toss them on their backsides as quick as we're able," Eduard whispered to Milos. "Prolonged fighting here wouldn't be beneficial to us. And if we get them on the ground, they'll be finished."

"Agreed," Milos whispered back.

Erlen rushed ahead. His bulkier friend took a few more seconds to charge. Eduard closed the gap between himself and Erlen, who only had eyes for Milos, and smashed the length of his forearm across Erlen's exposed throat. The boy's eyes bulged as he flew past Eduard and straight onto his back, coughing and gasping. By the time his bulkier friend got to them, Milos was there, and redirected him with a powerful throw into the wall. Then the Argonian grabbed hold of the larger young man and tossed him across the way into the other wall.

Dazed, the boy was no match for a swift and unforgiving punch to the face that nearly broke his nose, and the boy went down, unconscious.

Erlen shouted, and the third young man leapt into the fray. Eduard was not mistaken in his observation of a dagger in the third's hand. Milos struck Erlen in the side of his head as the third dashed ahead, weapon aimed for the exposed side of Milos' armour.

Eduard tripped the boy, grabbed his wrist and twisted hard. The sudden, loud snap of his wrist was all Eduard needed to hear before he dropped him, shouting and cursing, cradling his broken hand.

"Halt!" Eduard spun when he heard swords pulled swiftly from their sheathes. The armour of the city guards was not a welcoming sight. "You there! Stop this at once! You're under arrest for assault. Put your hands in the air!"

Milos swore harshly and raised his arms. Eduard was loathe to do so.

"I said raise your damn arms, vagrant!"

Milos narrowed his eyes at the priest. Finally, although slowly, Eduard put his hands behind his head.

 _I hate this damn city._

_/-\\_

 _ **17 First Seed, 4E 202**_

"The elimination of a clan of Vampires so close to our home is no small feat, and certainly shouldn't be rewarded as one." Jarl Idgrod Ravencrone straightened in her chair. Her hoarse but commanding voice was all that echoed in the hall, above the crackling of the fire and the shuffling of feet. "What can Morthal and her people do to repay you three?"

Bent on a knee before her throne, Taryn stared at the ground, obviously incredibly uncomfortable with the tone and the atmosphere. Serana nudged her arm, but Taryn responded less than favourably with some mumbling and muttering. Heniel hid his face to laugh into his breast.

"Perhaps just our horses and some supplies to continue on our way?" suggested Serana, and by Taryn's frantic nod, assumed she made the correct decision.

"If that's your wish." Idgrod waved her hand. Three soldiers disappeared from the hall to complete their assignment. "I'd like everyone in the hall to leave now. And if you see these new friends as they go, make certain you thank them. And apologize for the mob."

The hall cleared slowly, but Taryn didn't relax until the door closed. Then she let out a deep breath as Idgrod found a more comfortable position on her throne.

"I know the feeling," replied Ravencrone wearily. "Are you three certain you only want provisions? You could have some land if you wanted."

"I've already got that covered elsewhere," said Taryn as she stood and stretched. "I'm taking Serana home, but if Heniel wants some I'm not going to force him not to."

Heniel shook his head. "Prefer not. We're not supposed to own land. It removes us from friends who follow Stendarr's Mercy."

Idgrod sighed. "Then at least consider yourselves welcome to stay again, if you find yourselves passing through. You'll get a discount at the inn and some wares around town."

"That's more than enough, thanks. Honestly, I'm just glad all the courtly stuff is over. I always get so flustered when I have to act prim."

" _We noticed_ ," was Serana and Heniel's combined response.

Taryn turned scarlet. "Well, you can take the girl out of the slums..."

Serana sighed and put her hands on her hips. "With no offence meant to the jarl, could we _please_ leave now and move on?"

Their horses were awaiting them outside the jarl's longhouse, saddled, tacked, and supplied with all their belongings and some foodstuffs for the journey. The majority of the Nord population was too stubborn to appear and apologize, but some certainly did. Honestly, Taryn just wanted to get going. There was no certainty Eduard and Milos were in Solitude, but she had to see. And while it might have been a bit off course from where Serana wanted to go, it certainly wasn't far off.

Still, Serana was eager to get out of that backwater, and she wasn't keen to visit in the near future. She breathed a sigh of relief when the town was at their backs, holding Taryn's middle with her forehead pressed between her shoulders while Taryn and Heniel chatted about the weather and Skyrim's politics, more specifically the Civil War.

"We're lucky," said Heniel, riding beside Taryn. "No battles nearby. Perhaps some scouts have seen us, but I don't think we're that suspicious to report."

"Passers-by, I'd think. Hardly worth a second thought." Taryn stroked the neck of Wilderqueen, either oblivious or just ignoring the weight of the Vampire's head in her back. "Just how I like it."

"I'm looking forward to seeing your friends. Milos in particular." Heniel grinned boyishly. "Probably a sneak now."

"Sorry to disappoint, but he's quite large. A warrior more intimidating I've never met. Except..." Taryn absently counted her fingers without mentioning names. "Well, he's near the top of the list, but... Just near the top."

"And your other friend knows magic?"

"You'll find him casting more spells made to harm than heal, but yes. He's a prude, a jerk, and treats me with mostly contempt, but I think he's quite fond of my jokes."

"I don't think anyone's fond of your jokes." Heniel stretched and kept his eyes on the horizon. The air was chilled, but not unpleasant. "So what have you been doing in Skyrim? Just mercenary work?"

"Oh, this and that. But I suppose yes, acting more as a mercenary."

"Maybe you should think about joining the Companions. I hear their new Harbinger is pretty strong, if a bit young."

"You're one to talk, pipsqueak."

"But I would have liked to meet their old one. What was his name? Koduk Whitebeard or something?"

Serana heard Taryn's heart skip while the Imperial merely felt a pang in her chest that she ignored. "Something like that, I suppose."

"Well, it might be worth it to you joining warriors like that."

"You think they'd like my jokes?"

"As I said, I don't think anyone would."

"You wound me, Heniel. You wound me deeply."

The boy snorted, then gestured forward with his chin. "I'll scout ahead. Frostbite spiders are frequent in this area. Tolan said as much."

Taryn had barely agreed before Heniel urged Appleseed into a quick canter, and he pulled ahead swiftly. Serana felt Taryn's shoulders sag a bit.

"I have questions that I think I'm entitled answers to."

Taryn turned back to look at Serana as much as she dared with an amused look in place. "Oh? Like what? I'll warn you, I'm not giving up my secret sweetroll recipe. Been in the family for generations, that."

"Could you be serious for just a moment?" Serana glared at Taryn, her red-orange eyes like daggers piercing into the Imperial's moss-green. "When we fought that woman at the grave, you said strange things and then performed feats as quickly as her. More quickly, I'd say. You just said those things, they echoed, and you were stronger than even a Vampire, without transforming into a Werewolf!"

"Can we not talk about this when the Vigilant of Stendarr is nearby?"

"We're going to talk about it now because you keep putting it off!" Serana demanded stubbornly. "What did you do?! I've never seen magic like it!"

The Imperial's lips pursed as she thought. "Well... It's complicated." Taryn knew the answer was unsatisfactory, so she sighed. "The short version is I have an inborn ability to learn a language that gives me an edge against my enemies. Turning ethereal, moving and swinging quickly, I can even project my voice across a space to make it sound as though I'm coming from a different direction. It's handy, and I've been slowly training myself in it thanks to some old monks, but if I use it too much I risk turning. That, and using it in front of common folk would only blow my cover."

"What cover?"

"My simple life as a wandering adventurer. I like it this way. Hard enough being known in one hold for..." She hesitated. "Well, for rescuing a tower, let's say. I just want to live privately."

"But you keep poking your nose into everyone's business."

"Can't help it. It's in my nature." Taryn smiled reassuringly. "Don't worry yourself. We'll get to Solitude, find your home, and then you'll be safe and sound with no more silly adventures to get annoyed over. Besides, you've only ever mentioned you lived on the Sea of Ghosts. I don't know much else."

"Then I'll reveal more later—."

Wilderqueen whinnied and stopped dead in her tracks. Taryn grabbed the reigns with both hands to try controlling the speckled grey mare and prevent getting bucked off, but the sudden appearance of the little ghost girl in front of the horse was a short-lived surprise for the animal. Taryn spotted Helgi and grinned broadly.

"I'm sorry!" Helgi looked very determined for someone so young. She looked more transparent than the two women had ever seen her. "I'm really sorry I disappeared! I didn't mean to!"

Taryn dismounted and knelt in front of the girl. Serana did her best to keep on Wilderqueen alone and watched the two. "No, I'm sorry. I must have really scared you. I should have thought more."

"It's okay. You were protecting me." Helgi set her jaw. "I want to thank you before you leave. I can see Ma now, and I'm gonna go with her. She says we can't come back here, so I wanted to say good-bye before we go."

"That's very kind of you, Helgi. I'm grateful."

The little Nord girl reached for Taryn's hand. The Imperial offered it decisively. "Ma said to thank you too. And I wanted to know if..." The girl gulped. "You're gonna remember me, right? I'm not dead if you remember me. You said so."

With her other hand, Taryn placed it on top of Helgi's head. She nearly passed through it. "Of course. Always. Cross my heart."

"Pinky swear."

Taryn locked her pinky confidently with Helgi's. "Pinky swear. Now go see your ma. She's been very patient waiting for you."

"Yeah." Helgi grinned. "Thank-you!"


	13. Greatest Change

Chapter Twelve:

Greatest Change

 _ **24 Mid Year, 4E 199**_

 _Before anyone knew it, the fight had spilled onto the waterlogged cobblestones of Anvil's docks. The young man was tossed onto his back, mud sticking against his shirt and pants as the rain poured over him. The young woman with dark brown hair and moss-green eyes stepped out of the Flowing Bowl, cracking her knuckles and grinning proudly at the young man on the road._

 _"Told you you'd be flat on your ass," she said over the rain, grin broadening when he appeared to snarl at her. "Got only yourself to blame for this one, Lex. The rain will sober you up, so you can apologize in the morning."_

 _The young man leapt at her with a roar of rage. The spectators who'd gathered near the door knocked each other over to get out of the way as the young woman used the young man's momentum against him, shoving him easily into the outer wall of the establishment. His head hit the window and cracked the pane, but it knocked him out cold._

 _Hircine watched with an amused tilt to his head. He couldn't tell if it was Taryn Greystone's Beast Blood that made her a magnet for such trivialities, or her Nordic heritage. Possibly both, considering even that half still belonged to him. Despite the downpour of rain, his omniscient form was left untouched. Even his very presence went unnoticed as he leaned against a nearby railing that prevented drunk sailors from plummeting into the water._

 _"That's our man! Get her!" Three burly sailors barged out of the Flowing Bowl and launched themselves at Taryn. Hircine saw the sudden panic in her eyes as she wracked her brain to find a counter._

 _The Imperial in her saw the flaw in their strategy and used the slick cobbles to her advantage. The men couldn't stop quickly enough to grab her as she slid out of their way. Two hit the railing and balked. Hircine snorted at them. As they recovered, the third sailor threw a few punches at Taryn. She chose to let them hit, considering how the rain would make it difficult to find purchase against her bare arms while she blocked and parried._

 _The Nord in her saw the opening in the sailor's middle and landed a strong hit straight on, eliminating the chance to scrape him or miss by landing a direct blow to an area left unguarded. Hircine nodded approvingly. Her practicing from childhood helped her greatly in ensuring every blow she landed would be satisfyingly hard. As a result, the sailor fell to his knees, coughed up some fluid, and clutched his middle tightly. Taryn stepped out of the way and towards the two other men just as the one she punched vomited the drinks he'd guzzled earlier._

 _Hircine thought he saw the beast in her then, when she ruthlessly kicked the man on his knees in the side of the head to knock him out and eliminate him from the equation. The daedra was amused, certainly. Every time he chose to drop in and view Taryn Greystone, see how she was growing and if she'd make a fine and proper addition to his Hunting Grounds when the time came, was met with some event he'd want to watch, if only to see the mortals flail amusingly. Her Dragon Blood, locked deep inside her, squirreled someplace he couldn't tamper with, was delaying her transformation. It would only make it more painful for her, but that was a destiny he wasn't able to absolve._

 _Using the same tactics she'd chosen, Taryn weaved through their inebriated swings to find some exposure in their defence. Rinse and repeat, she had all four men gasping on the ground before long. And she looked quite proud of herself._

 _But the young man was on his feet again, sword in hand and eyes brimming with rage._

 _"You bitch!" Unlike before, he didn't leap forward. He feinted, and Taryn hesitated. Hircine perked up. He didn't really see her practice often with swords, since she seemed to prefer the bow._

 _Yet somehow, she managed to duck beneath the swing just fast enough to avoid a fatal blow to the head, and lost some of her hair in the process. She did not allow him even a second to recover from his swing, and planted a zealous uppercut beneath his chin with enough force to lift him off his feet and tumble onto his back, this time down and certainly with a concussion._

 _"Halt!"_

 _Taryn had no time to revel in her victory and narrow escape from death. She turned on her heel and bolted out of Harborgate as people surged from the Flowing Bowl to grab the young man's sword from his hand. Hircine shook his head. The guards stopped briefly at the scene, and what appeared to be the captain sent two after Taryn's fleeing figure. Hircine floated away from the groaning men and leisurely followed Taryn as she slipped into Westgate, and further into the shabby houses that populated it. Of course she lost the law enforcement with ease. She'd done it dozens of times before, and in all honesty, they didn't much care to catch her, not when she was practically doing their job for them. Their search was abandoned fairly quickly, and they returned to their captain._

 _Taryn was peeking out behind an abandoned house at the backs of the guardsmen and sighed gratefully. Hircine descended nearby, saw her breath on the air, and realized she was bleeding. He'd been so interested in the blows she landed he cared very little for the ones she'd managed to receive. Cuts and scrapes, mostly, but they bled all the same. Taryn slid down the wall until she sat in the muck and pushed her wet hair back out of her face. A cut on her brow and her lip, but both would heal. Her knuckles were in worse shape, but he'd seen those wounds before. They didn't seem to bother her all that much anymore. Hircine didn't have to worry about ensuring she'd still be in optimal health._

 _"Hidin' here again, are we?"_

 _Hircine recognized the voice as a man who frequented the port, and someone Taryn got along with fairly well. She smiled at the portly, bearded Imperial man who sauntered into the alley, rain dripping off his hat like a waterfall, and she wiped some of the blood off her lip._

 _"Captain," she greeted. "Just laying low. Couple days and no one will remember what happened."_

 _"No one but that lass and those boys, I'd wager." His name was Galerus Danius, as Hircine recalled, and he captained the Duchess. It was a ship Taryn had set her sights on from an early age, and she spent much of her time when it was in port helping around the deck to earn some extra coin. "You did a good thing."_

 _Taryn cheekily pulled a coin purse from her belt and shook it in front of the captain. "A good thing and a bad thing, but for the right reasons."_

 _The Daedric Prince chuckled. She must have had fast fingers to pull that off during a fight. He liked that. Hircine found that those who became part of his family had quirks that he quite enjoyed._

 _"Kid," said the captain, a bit more seriously than Taryn was used to. "I saw that last boy pull a sword."_

 _"Everyone did. I got away, so it's fine."_

 _"It ain't fine, kid. I saw you hesitate. You can't be doin' that in a fight."_

 _"Captain," said Taryn softly, "steel's a bit harder to come by coin-wise than a bending branch and a piece of twine. I've barely touched swords at all."_

 _The captain sighed. He seemed to mull over his thoughts like a wine-taster. "Well, I'll be in port for a while," said Galerus. "Meet me on deck bright an' early. I have some things that could use some helpin' with."_

 _The captain tipped his hat and stepped out of the alley. Taryn fastened the stolen purse to her belt again and frowned, her head leaning upwards to look at the overhead clouds, precisely where Hircine was floating. She couldn't see him because he hadn't allowed her to. Hircine didn't often appear to mortals, even those part of his blood._

 _It took him back eleven short mortal years, when he'd appeared to her and wiped her memories of him. He liked to check in on her, see her progress from child to adult, guess when she might snap and join his hunt—before or after she fulfilled the will of the ever-changing scrolls. She was bound to him like her father was, even if she had no knowledge of that._

 _Which reminded the Prince; how was Kodlak doing?_

 _Hircine dissipated from Cyrodiil and stepped into the hallowed halls of Jorrvaskr. Warriors were still gathered at the table, feasting and drinking before a roaring fire. A weathered member of the Circle was sharing a tale from his youth to some new members of the Companions. Skjor, if Hircine remembered correctly. Blind in one eye with war tales. Yes, it was him. A recipient of Hircine's gift, and one who appreciated it greatly._

 _Near the middle of the table, Kodlak Whitemane smiled and nodded at the appropriate times to encourage Skjor's stories to the young recruits, but he mostly kept to himself and drank his mead in silence._

 _One of the younger Companions seemed to notice and offered to help Kodlak back to his room. But Kodlak was too proud to advertise his frailty to the Companion raised within Jorrvaskr's walls, a young man named Heimdall Jorgenson, whose own father was part of their guild when he still lived. Instead, the elderly Harbinger stood on his own and excused himself. He was met with a resounding chorus of well-wishing for a good night's sleep._

 _Hircine followed Kodlak down into the bowels of Jorrvaskr, straight into Kodlak's own room. The old man seemed to consider putting out the torches and heading straight to bed, but he hesitated at the door. Hircine watched curiously. Yes, Kodlak and Taryn had the same furrow in their brow and shape of their eyes. Even their smiles resembled one another. Everything else had been inherited from her mother, Hircine supposed. Mortal genetics were always interesting._

 _Kodlak stepped away from his door and toward his desk. He opened a drawer laden with parchment long forgotten, carefully picked a single one out and read it in the dim torchlight of his office. A letter from his late wife, Hircine imagined. Those with Beast Blood usually felt things more intensely than regular mortals, which was why Taryn so felt the need to stick her nose into everyone's business and Kodlak felt the void of his wife and child so indubitably. Hircine was hardly interested in the letter. There was too much uninteresting talk of his late wife's impending return and progress with her activities, as well as significant excitement to be reunited with the Harbinger. So Hircine considered returning to Taryn or viewing the Companions merrily drinking above, until Kodlak slipped the parchment back into the drawer and softly shut it. Then he reached above his bookcase and lifted a dusty display case from it. It contained a single dagger, black like the midnight sky, and with the initials of the owner carved into the hilt with a graceful hand._

 _"My love..." Kodlak hung his head, unable to bear the weight of their absence._

 _Why was he being so sentimental that night? Hircine tilted his head to the side, unsure. Usually he just wrote back to clients who sent contracts for his guild and then went to bed. What was different?_

 _And then Hircine realized it was the day of Taryn's birth, and the day Kodlak last saw his wife. It was the anniversary of his loss, the beginning of his grief on the day he should have been happiest. Hircine left him be, partially disinterested, partially wanting to give the mortal some space rather than have a daedra spy on him._

 _But rather than return to his realm of Oblivion, Hircine decided to check in on Taryn once more. He returned to the waterfront of Anvil in the early daylight hours. Captain Galerus Danius was waiting for the young Imperial on deck. The moment she stepped aboard, Galerus tossed a sword her way. She panicked and juggled the weapon about, but eventually grabbed firm hold of the hilt._

 _"What's the big idea?!" she snapped at him, much to the horror of the captain's men. "You could have cut my head off!"_

 _"Gonna teach you how to defend yourself with a proper blade, girl!" Galerus grinned and assumed a stance Hircine was unfamiliar with. Warriors weren't exactly his speciality. "Go on! Put it up! All we got's a week 'fore we're headed out to sea again!"_

How dull. _Hircine shook his head and slowly dissipated from the mortal realm. He had other things to do, and didn't intend to be subject to mortals flailing around with cold steel._

_/-\\_

 _ **19 First Seed, 4E 202**_

"Finally!"

Taryn pointed towards the towering city on the cliffs in the distance with the eagerness of a child, eliciting smiles from her two travelling partners. She had to replace the dour mood with something, and acting the fool was a talent of hers to help cheer the room. Or, in that particular case, the wilds. Besides, nothing quite cheered the soul like seeing an end to marshland.

After their departure from Morthal, Taryn and Heniel spent most of their time sharing stories and remembering past events in their childhoods. Serana was content to listen, entertained by the numerous tales the two had. Taryn hadn't quite meant to open up to the young man so easily, but she couldn't help it. She was glad to see him, to travel with him, and to have someone there who was as concerned as her for Milos' safety. But the conversation quickly turned sour when Heniel asked why Taryn had left their home.

And Taryn had no intention of sharing how she'd harmed the Count of Anvil, thinking him to be one of her mates in the gang she helped along. It was a trick from who she'd believed to be an ally, one that hinged on Taryn keeping her word. But no one apart from herself and the group she used to travel with needed to know. Heniel was shot down quickly and didn't take it well.

But the heaviness lifted, replaced with newfound eagerness. They brought up their pace on Appleseed and Wilderqueen to hurry the rest of the way to Solitude. After all, it was nearly dusk. The prospect of a warm inn without suspicious townsfolk was enticing, although Taryn wouldn't go to bed until she found some sign of Milos and Eduard, if they made it there, or—.

Or if they perished somewhere.

She'd been so eager to think they made it to Solitude, Taryn barely put any energy towards thinking they may have really died. She was too hopeful. It would take seeing their bodies to really, truly convince her.

Until then, it was agreed that if they ever separated, they would find their way to Solitude and regroup. The heavy feeling in her heart and on her shoulders wouldn't wane until she found them. Worse still, she was concerned if they hadn't made it there and she spent too long searching for them.

She didn't realize she was visibly counting on her fingers, trying to determine when the next time Masser was full, until Heniel asked, "What're you counting for?"

Taryn smoothly responded, "Oh, the amount of people who want me dead. Trying to remember if it's anyone in Solitude."

"What in the name of the Divines have you done in Skyrim?!"

She laughed it off politely, hiding her anxiety beneath her usual mask of mirth. Only nine more days before Masser was full again, and she'd have to find some hole to lock herself up in. She had to get rid of Heniel before then. Eduard was accepting of the regular trips to Winterhold, but Heniel would be far too curious for his own good. The last thing she needed was a Vigilant of Stendarr knowing about her. He would be duty-bound to eliminate her. Even if he chose to take her on, Taryn knew he wouldn't be able to kill her. Not because he might not have the desire, but Taryn didn't desire to find out how far she'd have to go to keep his silence.

It wasn't anything like with the others. She managed to keep it secret from Eduard, but everyone else knew. Heimdall was one and had been sent by his Harbinger Kodlak Whitemane to keep an eye on her. The specific interest was because of a resemblance between herself and Kodlak's late wife, as well as the possibility of lycanthropy. The pieces fell together well. Aldren was a vampire whose only complaint was about the smell; Cha'qim the Khajiit lived life as though nothing bothered her, and it probably never did; Javin was fascinated in a way only a former daedra-worshipper could be. Milos had been the least open about it. Taryn never asked why, preferring to leave it firmly in the past.

She just... didn't want to lose the identity she'd worked so hard for in Anvil. The moment anyone who wasn't sympathetic found out...

"You two killed a Vampire all by yourselves..." Heniel sighed, shoulders sagging like the weight of the world had found its place there. "Here I've been training for months, but all I've done is keep the Vigil's flank clear. No enemies back there, no experience to be gained. And you two just waltz into a town, kill a crazed vampire, lead a mob to a cave full of them, and exterminate the rest of their plague all by yourselves."

Taryn reached across the distance of their horses, slowing them both as she placed a gentle hand on his shoulder. "Heniel, no one expects you to save the world. You need to be patient."

"Would you teach me? To fight like you, I mean. I want to learn."

She gave his shoulder a reassuring squeeze, but her expression betrayed her answer before she spoke it. "I'm barely trained as it is. I improvise to survive. That's all I've been taught."

"Battles are about survival, not the drills we've been taught."

"You're right, but—."

"But what?"

"—But I have no experience teaching. I barely survive the encounters I find myself in. I'm not suited for it. More likely to get you killed than anything else, and I don't want that." She saw his disappointment. "You've already learned more than I. It's uniform, practical, and I know it'll serve you well. Your drills have prepared you for a fight properly. Merely reacting is no way to win a fight. I've been lucky so far, but that will run out eventually. With hope someone will think I'm worth showing how not to impale myself on a blade."

Yet another topic dropped, but once again they hurried their pace through the marshland towards Solitude. By nightfall they'd made excellent headway, stabled their horses, and climbed the slope to the city gates. Security was tight. As well as the city's guardsmen, there was an abundant presence of the Imperial Legion, led by General Tullius. There was a squad of them occupied with some Stormcloak prisoners, which Taryn noticed Serana was staring at. The Imperials shoved and spat at the Nords, jeered on by some citizens who had come to watch.

"Death to the Stormcloaks!"

"That's for High King Torygg, traitors!"

"Ancestors turn their backs to you!"

Taryn clenched her jaw but kept everyone moving. _Idiots..._ she thought, keeping her eyes firmly ahead.

The city gates were closed, but some guardsmen allowed the three travellers safe passage through the wicket gate. They got a few sideways glances, what with Serana's strange outfit, Heniel's Vigil garb, and Taryn's scar that made her appear to be a bandit, but Taryn was used to such things and instructed everyone to keep moving. Her adventure with Heimdall, Milos, Eduard, Aldren, Cha'qim, and Javin had frequented such stares, although they were more numerous during the daylight. With the sun dipped below the horizon the trio were spared the majority of scrutiny.

"All right," said Taryn, gathering her two travelling companions below a street lamp, "same routine. I'll give you two some gold to set us up in the Skeever. Meantime I'll ask around, see if anyone's seen my friends."

She handed Heniel some septims, who gazed at the weight in his palm. "I think we ought to stick together. After last time—."

"Last time we were surrounded by country bumpkins reeling from a loss. Solitude's tense, but keep your nose clean and we'll be fine."

"I'll stay with Taryn, if it helps ease your mind," offered Serana, "but in the meantime we'll absolutely need lodging."

"But I want—!"

"Heniel, I promise we'll be careful."

The boy pursed his lips. "Very well, but didn't you mention you'd be looking at the inn for clues as well?"

Taryn relented sheepishly. "I did, didn't I? Alas I did. Fine, we're all headed to the inn."

Serana rolled her eyes at the Imperial. She took her time in following, even if the inn in question was just across the street from where they'd stood, and absorbed the city's sights. It hadn't been here when Serana closed her eyes to the world in that cave. Perhaps it had, but it may have been a mere hovel that Serana paid no attention to. Or it could have been a city, but she'd never once visited it. Likely not. Taryn had spoken some of Solitude on the way there, mentioned it had "Imperial architecture". Since Serana hadn't known of any Empire before her sleep, it was entirely possible her first assumption was correct.

She wondered if she climbed the battlements and peered over the parapet she would see her home. She doubted it. The mists surrounding the castle would undoubtedly work against her, and yet she longed to see it, even if the master of the castle was present. But maybe he'd changed. Maybe he missed her, his only daughter. But as she hoped, she felt the weight of the Elder Scroll wrapped in blankets to appear a bedroll pull on her. What would he do when he saw it?

"Serana!" Taryn beckoned the woman to follow inside as she kept the door ajar for her. Serana dipped her head and hurried after the Imperial and the Breton.

The tavern was alight with life and mirth. Barmaids hurried from the counter to serve the drinks ordered by rowdy patrons, most of them off-duty guardsmen, but the tavern certainly wasn't devoid of any young men or women dancing to the tune of hopeful graduates of the Bard College strumming their lutes and thumping their drums. Heniel elbowed past some Nords laughing and jeering at one another to get to the owner, who was busy dealing with a complaint from a few young men bandaged up from a fight.

Heniel's polite intrusions were ignored as Corpulus Vinius tried to calm down the boys. "Listen Erlen, if I've told you once, I've told you a hundred times: no fighting in my establishment. You want to pick fights? Go see if that Dragonborn needs help with a lizard problem. You so much as look at someone the wrong way in here and I'll have you tossed in the dungeon."

"You think that scares me, old man?" Erlen scoffed. "We gave as good as we got. You should have seen them, bloody pulps!"

"Last I checked, they were for the most part intact. And Kvenel's got a broken hand. How well can he do for work at Katla's?"

"Not your concern."

"You want to complain? Take it up with the guard. Who I let into my establishment is up to me and no one else. Sod off before I make sure you're no longer allowed."

The boys huffed and stalked away, making certain to smack shoulders with Sorex Vinius and shoot him a dark glare. The man just sighed and went back to work now that the main threat had dispersed from his father.

Finally, Corpulus turned his attention to Heniel. Taryn was busy explaining the locale and music to Serana in hushed tones.

"Sorry about that. What can I do for you, traveller?"

"Travellers, actually. Looking for some room and board."

Corpulus clicked his tongue. Not a good sign. "Ah, well, I've got one room left. Other two are rented out for the week. It's only got one bed though."

"That's perfectly fine. We have bedrolls to spread out, provided there's room."

"How many?"

"Three in total."

"More than enough. Ten gold for the room. It's two extra for food per person, four for some hot water. I provide extra blankets free of charge."

"Perfect. Just the room for now. We'll see about the rest in due time."

"As you wish."

Heniel handed the innkeep the gold and indicated the room Corpulus directed him to. The three ambled over, avoiding any drunks and dancers in their path, and didn't slow until the door was shut at their backs. Heniel breathed a sigh of relief.

"Oh, pox on crowds..."

Taryn smirked, found a corner free of any tables or wardrobes and dropped her pack there. Serana slowly tucked the Elder Scroll under the bed, and Heniel poured a goblet of water for himself, drinking deeply enough that the scroll went unnoticed.

"I'll go ask around. Place this lively wouldn't have missed an Argonian or masked man without gossiping about it," declared Taryn, pouring a cup for herself alongside Heniel.

When the Breton came up for air, he added, "And I'll be headed to the Blue Palace. I said I needed to warn the jarls about the Vampires. Least I can do for Tolan is follow up on that."

"Did you not warn Jarl Ravencrone?"

"I'm quite confident she's aware of the situation based on what already happened in her hold. She'll be more vigilant."

"Fair."

Serana stretched her arms above her head. "I think I'll linger around the inn a while. I like the music."

"That's the Bard's College for you," said Heniel. "Masters all, even those who haven't yet graduated. Even to get in is arduous."

Taryn agreed whole-heartedly. The amateurs she'd met throughout her travels were decent enough, but none had studied in Solitude. The techniques the Bards passed on there really made a difference in the overall sound of a bard. She felt quite proud and cultured being able to notice the difference. Besides, anything was an improvement over that Orc in Morthal.

 _Never mind my Voice,_ thought Taryn. _He could kill dragons just as well as I with his. Or at least pop their eardrums._

"Well, Serana and I will be here when you get back. Hopefully it isn't too late for you to request an audience with Elisif or speak with Falk. But if so, just come back. I suppose it would be a wiser move to stay in one place."

"Yeah, instead of snooping around another ruin," added Serana.

Taryn balked. "Hey! It wasn't my fault and you know it!"

_/-\\_

 _ **2 Sun's Height, 4E 199**_

 _There was no question she'd gotten better over the long week Galerus had taken it upon himself to help Taryn learn how to swing a weapon properly, even if it involved quite a bit of deception and trickery beyond actual skill. Enough to keep her alive, certainly. Just enough. She met him every morning since he tossed that weapon at her, trained with him and his crew religiously, and then helped with their cargo and shipments in the afternoon for some extra food and coin. As promised, when the week was up the good captain set sail for his next port and bade Taryn a hearty farewell. He left a dagger in her possession as a parting gift for the next time they'd meet, and then he'd teach her more._

 _It was the day after he'd set sail. Taryn was seated in the Flowing Bowl once more, enjoying drinks with the people she knew and some she didn't. Most sailors were in the Fo'c's'le awaiting their next job, and as it had been for as long as it had been established, it also served as a brothel of sorts, so it was understandable most drinkers in the Flowing Bowl were women and married husbands._

 _Mostly, Taryn was scoping out the few travellers that chose to board at the Flowing Bowl, seeing if they needed help lightening their load of septims before they departed. Her table tucked in the corner gave her ample opportunity to assess each and every resident and traveller unabated. No one paid much attention to her anyhow. Even if she were a resident, most people in Anvil liked to pretend the orphanage and the subsequent ne'er-do-wells it churned out didn't exist at all._

 _She thought she might have found a mark, an inebriated man who paid twice for everyone's rounds. He was so drunk he probably wouldn't notice a few extra septims lost, probably gambled away at a game of Liar's Dice some men were playing on a table by the fire. He'd likely inherited some fortune or made a prosperous trade deal, which was nearly unheard of since the city was besieged by the Thalmor decades ago. It still struggled to operate as it once did at the height of the Empire._

 _He began to get up and hobble out of the door. He must have come there to drink and rented a room elsewhere. Taryn smirked and downed the last of the drink he'd so kindly bought and began to follow him. It was unfortunate she nearly made it out the door to follow when Lex and his mates sought entry._

 _The boys halted in their tracks. Taryn pretended not to feel the air change with the intensity of their glares and tried to cautiously brush past them. Lex grabbed her bicep._

 _"I've been meaning to repay you for last week," he growled in her ear, low enough only they could hear._

 _Taryn smiled at him, hoping not to draw attention to herself as her mark used the railing on the docks to lead himself towards Harborgate. "You'll let go of me before I send you off with a broken hand and shattered pride, Lex. Bet it was fun explaining to your father why the guards grabbed you."_

 _He squeezed more tightly. She felt the desire to flex but fought it. He didn't need to be agitated further. As long as she was within eyesight of the proprietor and patrons of the Flowing Bowl, he wouldn't do anything. Well, unless he was drunk. But even in the proximity she was to him Taryn didn't smell any liquor on his breath. He was completely sober._

 _Unlike her mark, who was staggering further away from her._

 _"You got lucky last time—."_

 _"If you want to threaten me, do it in an alleyway or something like a good little boy. In front of all these people, even quietly, is drawing attention to yourself. You're blocking the door, Lex."_

 _He glowered at her. When his hand loosened, Taryn brushed past him. "Good job. Maybe follow in the footsteps of your ancestor and join the guard. Might give you something to do other than harass and grope others."_

 _She sped along to the Harborside gate, hoping she hadn't lost him. After all, how far could that guy have gotten without any help while he was drunk? The only other establishment was the Count's Arms, and since he clearly wasn't a resident, that must have been his destination. More likely since he was throwing around coin like bread crumbs to pigeons._

 _Once she slipped within, she spotted him take a spill on the road. Her chance! Taryn jogged up to the man and offered him an arm. He gratefully took it._

 _"Whoa, s-sorry, there. I... I must have—." He belched loudly. Taryn was just grateful it was the only thing that came out of that end. "—oh! I had a bit to drink." His words were slurred and eyes unfocused. He was more pathetic than Taryn had first realized._

 _"Not a problem sir. I saw you walking home and thought I'd make certain you got there safely." She flashed him a grin, innocent and pleasant enough. "Where's yours?"_

 _He pointed just down the street. Surprisingly, just beside the Count's Arms. Strange. That manor house had certainly been on the market, but Taryn hadn't heard of it changing hands. "That 'un. My uncle—rich bastard he is—gave it to me as part of..." He struggled to find the word. Waved his hand in the air for a while. "My inheritance," he decided upon._

 _"Nice of him. Where are you from?"_

 _"Came all the way from Chorrol. Nothin' left for me there. Few friends came along too." He belched again. Taryn rolled her eyes._ Friends. Great. Other people there. _She'd just have to filch some from his coin purse, which wouldn't be terribly difficult given his state. "Name's Elrich. You're a nice lady. You got a name or just a pretty face?"_

 _She reached around him, bringing him closer to her so she could stick her hand into his pouch as discreetly as she was able. "Oh, that privilege is reserved, I'm afraid." She felt coins and a ring. Taking a handful while trying not to make the metal clink together, Taryn shoved it in her own coin purse and then deflected Elrich's wandering hand. "That one too."_

 _"How 'bout dinner?"_

 _"When you're not so drunk I might consider it."_

 _"I'm not—." Taryn saw his face turn green just as they reached the corner of his home. She set him quickly against the stone and let him vomit out the drink he'd consumed, and when she was assured he wouldn't stagger into the pile she slipped away._

 _Some time later when she found a cozy nook hidden from view of the townsfolk in an alleyway, Taryn took inventory of her take. Coins, yes, as she noticed. She had to do some digging to find the ring. It was an odd piece of silver, almost appearing plain were it not for the engraving of a wolf head placed prominently. She twirled it in her fingers. Felt like it was enchanted, but she had no eye or sense for magic beyond shooting a fireball at someone's rear or mending small scrapes and scratches. She considered putting it on._

 _Before she did, she hesitated._ Yes, Taryn, _she thought to herself derisively._ Put on the ring you just stole. If it gets reported, absolutely no one will ever suspect the kid with the new ring. _Huffing, Taryn stuffed it in her purse. She'd find some fence in the Thieves Guild to take it off her, maybe appraise it. She didn't need to know what happened to it beyond the coin she'd get for it. And now that she thought about it, she believed Tavan was in town. She'd dealt with him previously. He'd give her a good deal._

 _Hircine watched as Taryn made her decision and left the alleyway to find her Bosmer associate. He frowned beneath his stag skull. He was disappointed, yes, but clearly he was interfering and being told not to in a gentle manner. A message from those Elder Scrolls, certainly. One destiny at a time._

 _He expelled some air from his nostrils. Fine. He was patient. He could wait some time longer. That was not his concern. But the longer the scrolls had her inevitable transformation delayed, the more it would cause her pain. It would make walking her path all the more difficult, and Hircine preferred his hunters in their prime condition._

_/-\\_

 _ **20 First Seed, 4E 202**_

"Of course I've seen them."

It was past midnight in the Winking Skeever. Unfortunately, most of the locals were too drunk or too anti-social to question the whereabouts of Milos and Eduard. She figured she'd try the regulars first, then make her way to Corpulus, since he'd been too busy to speak with Taryn earlier. So she'd turned her attention to the bard Lisette. She'd responded promptly.

Taryn grinned. They'd made it! The concerns she'd buried about their possible deaths finally extinguished. "Where are they? _How_ are they?"

Lisette strummed her lute some in an effort to tune it. "Last I heard they got scooped up by the guard for fighting outside the tavern. But Erlen and his boys had been as well. Had a fine to pay. Since Erlen's out, I can only imagine they paid it. But that Argonian and priest fellow put their money into the Skeever for rooms. I don't think they had enough. Might be kept at the dungeon."

The Imperial could have skipped with glee. "Thank-you!" Instead she bolted out the door of the Skeever and into Solitude's empty streets. Castle Dour wasn't difficult to spot. She'd been there once before to summon General Tullius to High Hrothgar. So she took the path upward and straight to the door, which was guarded by two Penitus Oculatus soldiers. She tried not to pay them any mind as she entered, but she felt their eyes on her.

Instead of following the shouting (which was obviously coming from Tullius), Taryn turned the corner down to the dungeon. The room was circular and two floors, the second being the one she found herself on. It was clearly meant only for the soldiers guarding the place, as no cells were present. They were all on the ground floor. There was a woman Taryn could hear below insulting the Imperial soldiers patrolling down there, declaring her affiliations to the Stormcloaks. But she wasn't Taryn's goal.

A soldier looked her way on the second floor and stopped her. "What are you doing here? No visitors allowed right now."

"Sorry, I'm not here to visit. I'm here to pay a fine for some friends of mine."

He examined her. "That monk and the Argonian?"

"Those would be them."

"Ah, well. They were caught fighting in the streets with some boys some nights ago. Fine's forty septims."

Taryn rolled her eyes. "Some nights ago, you said?"

"Aye."

"How may days do they need to be in jail as opposed to paying the fine?"

"Four."

"And now it's been about three."

"... Yes."

"Why don't I just pay, say, twenty septims? They've already served more than half their sentence. At this point, imprisoning them will just cost the Empire valuable coin."

He scratched his head. He looked uncomfortable. "I'll... have to ask my commander..."

"Please. I'll wait here."

The soldier hesitated, but eventually relented and made for a room nearby. A small, whispered conversation later, and the soldier returned.

"Very well. Twenty septims and the two go free."

She fished out twenty and handed them to the guard. "All right. I'll head down to retrieve them."

"No, I'll be sending a man down with a key. Please wait in the foray of Castle Dour. We'll have to make certain their belongings are returned to them."

Taryn shrugged. "All right. If that's the process." Then she walked back up the stairs and into Castle Dour.

She didn't have to wait more than twenty minutes before she heard the door to the dungeon. Milos led the way up, stretching his shoulders and trying to adjust his armour again. Taryn was busy sharpening her dagger with a whetstone she'd found lying around. (Although the way it was sharpening, Taryn felt as though the previous owner would regret placing it so far away from their belongings where any sort of strange person could "acquire" it). Eduard followed, clearly annoyed by the accommodations they'd had.

Both men seemed to have a weight removed from their shoulders the moment they laid eyes on her. Taryn felt the same. Milos' armour was, for the most part, cleaned of any blood, though he still walked favouring his left side. That was true as well for Eduard, although he hid it well. Unlike Milos who had at least tried to clean up his appearance, Eduard's violet robes were stained with crusted blood. Taryn wasn't sure how he'd stood it for so long.

Milos spread his arms wide, hiding the grimace of pain on his side. "C'mere, you tiny little idiot!"

Taryn pocketed the whetstone, shoved her dagger back into the sheathe on her boot and leapt at the Argonian with a laugh. "You big oaf!" she retorted childishly. "I'm glad to see you're still in one piece!"

"It'll take more than a little prick to do me in." He squeezed her tightly, and she returned the favour, although careful of his injury. "I was worried when those Vampires took you."

"We were in a bad spot, but I managed to get out. I'll give you the details later."

"Yeah, me too. But I don't think I would have survived if Eduard hadn't taken such good care of me."

Taryn peered at Eduard from over Milos' arm. He deliberately turned his head away from her.

"It was convenient," he said guardedly. "Although I am... gratified to see you well."

Milos finally released Taryn. "I'm really glad you're both alright," she admitted jovially. "We're at the Skeever right now. There are three of us staying in a room there."

"Three?"

"Heniel being one. You remember him?"

"Little Breton kid with the unicorn?"

"That'd be him. The other is..." She struggled with an explanation. "Well, we'll need to talk privately about her. The long and short is I promised to help her get home."

Huffing, Eduard growled, "Ah, so she'll be staying with us for some months. I should endeavour to get to know her over the many years we'll travel together before either of us actually get home."

Milos chortled, "Oh Divines, I forgot about that..."

"Well, I did too. Keep forgetting, actually," Taryn admitted sheepishly.

The Dragon Priest levelled a dark glare at the Imperial. "You are a child and a fool. Why you were such a threat to Alduin is beyond me."

"I like to think it was my unpredictability that won the day."

"Okay kids. Let's just get back to the inn and toss ourselves in a good bed." Milos began leading them from Castle Dour. "I don't know about Eduard, but my back's in pretty rough shape."


	14. Bloodlines

Chapter Thirteen:

Bloodlines

 _ **20 First Seed, 4E 202**_

"The situation with the Empire remains at a stalemate," Galmar said to Ulfric, regarding his jarl with the same straight-forwardness Ulfric had always relied on. "Our skirmishes haven't had the results we've been looking for. Too much hesitation. And our true battles with the Empire have just lost men on both sides with no real ground recovered."

The Nord jabbed a finger at the map on the table in the war room, thumping it loudly against the wood. "If this continues, the Empire will simply wait us out. True sons and daughters of Skyrim are in short supply as it is. Those furious with the Empire and the loss of Talos worship were the first to join our cause. Our acquisition of Markarth in exchange for Riften during Season Unending helped to bolster our numbers, but the Legion continues to rival us, especially with their supply lines through Riften unimpeded."

Jarl Ulfric stared at the figurines of his forces dotting the map, most in the far east of his home province, with small clusters camped throughout of a dozen men or so. He felt a pit in his gut when he glanced at Markarth, and how his men were isolated there. If it hadn't been for the fortifications of the Dwemer, he may not have taken the exchange the Dragonborn had suggested. And it was a prime, defensible location. The Empire would have to throw hundreds of men at the walls to even attempt to reclaim it.

"I suggest we consider Balgruuf again."

Ulfric closed his eyes. How many times had he and Galmar had this conversation? Too many. And he knew more than anything Galmar was right.

"Not yet," said Ulfric decisively. "Balgruuf remains neutral yet. We'll continue to send envoys to strengthen our political grasp, hopefully sway him to our side. I know he still holds Talos close to his heart. He'll see reason soon."

"I don't like the idea of sitting around and waiting for him to change his mind," Galmar growled. "He may decide he'll stay loyal to the Empire that has already betrayed us all."

"An Empire with no Emperor to lead it. The political fools in Cyrodiil are busy squabbling over whose dynasty shall come to pass while Mede lays warm in his grave. His assassination has sent the Legion here into disarray. The Battle of Giant's Gap was a resounding success for us." He paused. The candlelight darkly across his face. "We ought to focus on recruitment. If Balgruuf intends to keep his feet planted, or faces the way of the Empire, we'll need a great amount of force to take the city. And machines to help us."

"We've already begun rolling those to the borders, awaiting the call to action."

"I hope it will not come to this, but ensure the trebuchets and catapults have a means of crossing the river west of Whiterun. Their sentries will spot us if we move too soon. It would be seen as aggressive."

Galmar nodded. The jarl's second picked up some papers on the table and handed them to Ulfric. "I'm still concerned about the ruse."

"Of Ralof being Dragonborn?" Jarl Ulfric chortled. "The men are accepting of his new status. We put him in armour that distinguished him, helped craft the story around the defeat of Alduin. He is brave and loyal, and he understands what this means."

"And if they should discover he isn't and not react as predicted..."

"Then we will divert their attention, Galmar." The reports in his hands were from his top lieutenants scattered throughout Skyrim. They all praised the recruitment of the Dragonborn to their ranks. Some expressed their surprise it was Ralof of Riverwood, whom they'd served with for some time. They mentioned the tale of the Dragon slain in Whiterun, and some chalked it up to Imperial propaganda. Still others questioned the tale, wondering what the truth was. Ulfric would make them come around soon enough. He didn't have a place for doubt in his ranks. "The Dragonborn will be drawn into the conflict, and by then everyone will know her identity. She will be forced to choose a side instead of hiding behind the Greybeards and their little messenger-girl."

"Another thing I wanted to discuss with you, Jarl Ulfric. The Imperial. She could get in the way."

"And we did discuss it. She won't hinder us from freeing Skyrim."

"I have new reports. I did some digging." Another page was handed to Ulfric. He glanced at it. "You recognized her from Helgen, an unfortunate soul caught in the Empire's web. I couldn't send anyone across the border to find anything there, but we uncovered other things. For one, she seems to have a close relationship with the Companions in Whiterun. Their new Harbinger seems on familiar terms with them. There's also a rumour going around that she's close to the court in Whiterun Hold."

"The Gray-Manes fed you this?"

"Thorald, yes. Ralof liberated him from Thalmor captivity some weeks ago. He joined our ranks and told us of the goings-on in Whiterun."

"So that's how you've been keeping tabs on Balgruuf's territory."

He nodded. "Aye. Thorald's mother keeps in touch, answers whatever questions he has."

"The Gray-Manes are resolute allies. And if Whiterun falls under our control, Skyforge steel would be a great asset in the war."

"Yet another reason why we should make our move, Jarl Ulfric."

"No. I stand by what I have said. Give Balgruuf time." He paused, seeing the annoyance on his second's face. "I will give him some weeks. When Ralof is free again, summon him here. I will have a task for him that will force Balgruuf to choose, if he has not already."

"At the moment he's gathering information to the location of the Jagged Crown."

" _If_ it exists," insisted Ulfric.

And Galmar regarded his jarl seriously. "I assure you, it certainly does. And we _will_ have it before Elisif. I swear it."

_/-\\_

 _ **21 First Seed, 4E 202**_

Belongings packed, debts paid, and supplies acquired, Taryn, Milos, Eduard, and Serana went west to the Vampire's home. Taryn put Heniel in charge of keeping Wilderqueen and Appleseed safe and left him behind. As a Vigilant of Stendarr, he was needed at the Blue Palace to help Jarl Elisif plan a defence against a potential Vampire attack accordingly, despite Tullius' objections and insistence to focus on the Civil War. Besides, inviting a Vigilant of Stendarr to Vampire's home was a recipe for disaster. The preparations themselves would take some time, so Heniel had her promise to return. She obliged, unable to find the will to simply abandon the boy. He wanted to visit Milos again, whom he'd idolized when he wanted to be a warrior. Their visit in Solitude was brief, interrupted when Heniel realized Eduard primarily used magicka as his weapon, and showered the Dragon Priest with questions.

It seemed Eduard was too exhausted from Heniel to berate or annoy Taryn during their second day of travel through the Haafingar Mountains. Nonetheless, she would have welcomed it. Milos had an abundance of questions for Serana as he tried to discern if there were any true differences between this strange woman with an Elder Scroll and their old companion Aldren Ebor. They led the way ahead while Taryn walked with Eduard just behind. Her bow was in her hand, quiver at her waist, and she had an arrow at the ready in case of an impending attack. The feel of it in her hands again was a great comfort.

She noticed Eduard's limp was still there, and he was clearly trying to be subtle about holding his side. Perhaps the healer had gotten to him late. Perhaps he'd strained himself. Eduard wasn't one to talk about it. He'd complain of the time it was taking to return to Labrynthian, a place that held a great deal of power, and his former home. If anyplace would get him back to his time, it would be there. And he made certain to remind Taryn of it about one hundred times since they'd been reunited. But he would never, ever reveal his true feelings or his deeds. Even Milos diverting Taryn's attention and thanks to Eduard had seemed to annoy the priest.

He'd saved Milos. And once, he'd saved Taryn. Even if he claimed they were sworn enemies, even if his loyalties still laid with Alduin, and even if returning him to his time might alter the events that had already transpired, Eduard had gone out of his way at risk of his own life to save them.

"You're staring at me." Eduard's glare was felt through his broken mask. She thought he might add something scathing or insulting, but it seemed all he was willing to say at the moment. Then perhaps rather than privacy, he was driven by curiosity. Still, Taryn found it difficult to believe.

"I..." Taryn chewed her lip. How would she go about saying it without a mordant response?

"If you're worried about the wound, don't be," he said, softer than she had expected. "I've had worse as a child. This will not be a burden much longer."

"That's not it, but I'm glad to hear you're getting better." She stared at the weapon in her hand. He looked away as well, still holding his side. "Eduard—." Taryn stopped herself. "Lokbruniik." The priest turned to look at her again. "Zu'u los krosis." Very carefully and hesitantly, she reached out and placed her hand over his as it clutched his aching wound. If it hadn't been for her carelessness and frivolity, he wouldn't have gotten that gash. She wouldn't have led him and Milos into a horrible situation. He'd already be back home plotting against her, like any decent Dragon Priest.

She saw his shoulders sag, however limited the gesture was. For the first time in a while, she didn't feel his scathing glance beneath his mask. And he let her hand remain. "This is nothing to apologize for, Dovahkiin. Fin dreh los dii."

She held it there a while longer, hoping that he would feel her apology was genuine. Perhaps he did, but, as always, his mask hid his true feelings. He couldn't give anything away if he wanted to.

"We should keep moving." It looked as though they'd fallen behind Milos and Serana. Taryn removed her hand hastily. Damn. What was she thinking? That was too... personal a gesture. She was surprised he hadn't just slapped it away.

"Y-You're right. Sorry. I just..." She smiled. "I'm glad you're both alright."

Eduard avoided her gaze and trudged forward, Taryn following some distance behind, eyes peeled towards the ridges of the mountains for any bandits that might try to descend upon them. Their falling behind went nearly unnoticed by the two ahead, wrapped in a conversation Taryn couldn't hear from her current spot.

They finally passed through the gorge in the mountains Serana had been leading them through and came upon a wide view of the eastern Sea of Ghosts, shrouded in cold fog so dense they could only see the beginnings of the water at the coast below. But beyond the view and the fort below, guarded closely by what appeared to be Thalmor marching about, there didn't seem to be anything remarkable about the place. A view and nothing more.

Taryn shared a glance with Milos, one Serana picked up on quickly. She puffed at them and persisted ahead, waving her arm for them to follow. "You really think anyone would just let a fortress on the water be? It's enchanted, but it's there. Come on."

The Dragon Priest pushed ahead and followed Serana down the treacherous, rock-ribbed path with great care. Again, Milos and Taryn shared a glance, and the inky-scaled Argonian trudged forward. Taryn kept an eye on their flank, hesitating a moment to make certain they were clear to focus solely on the path. When she was satisfied and her travelling companions were nearly at the bottom, Taryn followed with the all the ease her light armour and quick reflexes would allow her.

At the seat of the mountains, the four stopped for a break, drank some water, nibbled some bread, then set off again, cautious of the Thalmor occupying the nearby fort. If they didn't move carefully, even in the glaring white of the snow, the elves might see them and perceive them as a threat. Taking on a fort of angry Thalmor was not how Taryn wanted the day to end. She'd had her fill of the Altmer for another decade or so. But Serana led them closer still.

As though sensing Taryn's unease, Serana said placidly, "If I remember correctly, the old docks are still shrouded in the same magic the castle is. We'll go around this place and find them at the shore."

Taryn nodded, then turned to Eduard and Milos. "So, in other words, keep low and keep quiet."

Milos acknowledged her with a nod. Taryn interpreted Eduard's slight twitch of the shoulders to be some sort of recognition. The closer they came to the snow-topped fort, the lower they dipped to the ground. Snowfall had begun, and quickly picked up once they were in proximity, allowing them better cover to move more quickly. She thought she heard an elf call out, probably to his friends and perhaps about spotting four shadows in the gale, but when they dove behind some rocks nearby and heard nothing further, they considered they must have just caught a conversation on the breeze and continued on.

The storm worsened by the time they arrived at the spot Serana had picked out. There was nothing but a barren inlet, no docks nor castle in the distance. Just a bunch of stones straining out of the water, making for a treacherous voyage for any sailors who dared those shallow waters. Taryn pulled her mantle close around her to shield from the squall, felt her legs shivering. Thankfully that blubber trick Heimdall had passed on was keeping in her boots.

The Vampire reached her hand out and touched the air. It shimmered, glowing a faint maroon, before vanishing completely. Such strong magic and the Altmer a mere three-dozen metres away didn't even detect it... Taryn felt as though Javin would be beside himself. Taryn herself was in utter awe. And Eduard beside her shifted, indicating his interest. The sleet pelting them had disappeared completely, the fog had lifted. In the distance, beyond the rocks in the water, a castle loomed remotely. Serana dropped her hand. She took it in, the familiarity of the stones and the sudden pang of homesickness she'd managed to fight off until that moment.

"That really puts a lot of keeps I've seen to shame," Milos mumbled lowly.

"Home," said Serana simply. "The magic remains. I think it's still occupied by the Volkihar."

"Is this as far as we go then?" Taryn asked, indicating the far-off castle.

Serana deliberated at that. Her homesickness, her relief at having seen her home was still standing on the island, suddenly drained from her. A new feeling found a home in the pit of her stomach: dread. Her home stood. The Volkihar Clan was surely still there, meaning her father would be as well. Try as she might, Serana was having great difficulties summoning her courage to her. The Elder Scroll on her back suddenly felt like a substantial weight. Would he see Serana or the scroll first?

It seemed foolish to return home after she'd been hidden with it, but what other choice had she? And it had been hundreds of years. By now, perhaps her father had waned in his obsession. Perhaps he'd finally given up on that forsaken prophecy he'd laboured towards.

Although, having a bit of support from her newfound friend might give Serana the courage she needed.

"I'd... If you don't mind, would you cross the channel with me and to the keep?" Serana saw the conflict and confusion in Taryn's eyes, so she elaborated, "My... father and I don't get along. As if no one's ever heard that story before, but our... disagreements have been stewing for a long time. Still, you would probably get rewarded for delivering me all the way. He may be difficult at times, but he hasn't forgotten etiquette."

"Hmph. 'Come with me little girl. I have some lovely jewels for you if you just follow me into this eerie and foreboding castle on the Sea of Ghosts guarded by magicka you wouldn't be able to break in three lifetimes.'" Taryn elbowed Milos with enough force to stop him, seeing Serana's face fall suddenly.

"I think I should have tried bribery. I may have been home by now," grumbled Eduard beside them.

"Oh, don't go and get suspicious on me now. You know that's not what I meant."

"He knows," Taryn replied to Serana, delivering another quick jab of the elbow to Milos' side. "If it makes you feel better, I'll come along."

"And you're not going in alone. I'll be following as well," added Milos.

Eduard deliberated a moment longer. "I will await you here. I want to study more of that magic's affects on the area. Since you're merely delivering someone, you have no need of my presence."

"If that's what you want," said Taryn. "Okay, Milos and I are coming along to make sure you get back to your depressing castle on the water."

She brightened at that, if only on the inside. "Thanks. After everything's done, I'll make sure you leave safely. Just try to withhold your want to kill everyone in there."

"What in Oblivion do I look like? A Vigilant of Stendarr?"

With a smirk, Serana led the three to a boat tied with rope to a small, sinking dock. The Nord who manned it didn't seem bothered by the state of the rotting wood and water lapping at his heels. He'd been so stock still none of the three alive accompanying Serana had noticed him there against the backdrop of a solitary castle. Dressed in simple clothing and staring straight ahead at all times, the Nord appeared old and weathered, haggard in appearance and completely dumb. Only the sight of an approaching Volkihar Vampire had him cross towards the rope, readying to untie it with pale gnarled fingers.

Serana was helped into the boat by Milos, who followed after Taryn had also climbed aboard with more ease than the Vampire. It was probably one of the most graceful actions the Vampire had ever seen the Imperial complete, her memories of Taryn mostly consisting of fighting and trying to juggle a door open with her elbows. The boat rocked dangerously sideways at the addition of the heavily armoured warrior, but it evened out among the currents of the Sea of Ghosts.

With the boat untied, the pale-eyed Nord man clambered in with his other passengers, grabbed hold of the oars and began rowing. He was surprisingly strong, given his feeble appearance, and could propel the boat forward with powerful paddles. In perhaps less than ten minutes, they'd crossed the Sea of Ghosts safely and were guided towards another small jetty. The Nord hopped out, fastened the boat once more, then slowly shambled onto the shore, stopping just as his feet touched hard ground.

The other three stepped out of the boat and began walking up to the castle. A small fortification clearly meant to be a watchtower stood at the banks, but was unoccupied. Taryn felt nervousness creep in at the stillness of it. An abandoned watchtower was not a good sign. But they kept on, Serana leading the way up to a lengthy stone bridge with four statues of gargoyles, two aligned on either side, guarding their abode faithfull. Yet again Taryn felt anxiety rear its ugly head. Serana may not have remembered their escape from that cave, but Taryn remembered quite clearly the trouble she was in fighting only one. Then their short alliance with the Dawnguard had them kill two more, and even with all their numbers they'd barely made it out of that alive. If those stones sprang to life...

Serana did not appear the least bit unnerved and strolled past them without so much as a glance. They didn't move. Nor did they when Taryn and Milos proceeded beyond their guard. Taryn forced herself to find some calm in her, calling upon the few meditations she'd had with the Greybeards and Paarthurnax, but for the moment they failed her. After all, she'd not spent nearly as much time with them as she'd promised, but that was to be attributed to her other problems that she had to deal with.

Instead, Milos acted as her rock, placing a calming hand on her shoulder to help her gather her wits and keep a cool head. She was glad they'd found each other again. Taryn felt as though she may have been lost without him.

A figure appeared, stepping out of the shadows of the imposing castle and onto the bridge. He leered at the travellers for just a moment before his pale eyes settled upon Serana, then he appeared to gasp and hurried to open the heavy wooden doors behind him. As soon as they were wide, an Altmer Vampire in ribbed grey armour turned to look at them with a furious glare in place. His red-orange eyes focused upon the largest of the group: Milos.

"How dare you!" he snarled just above the noise of conversation further inside, his already hollowed face depressing further as he scowled. "Trespassers, here?! I'll have to send those stupid oafs to Rargal—!" He stopped. Just as the man outside, his eyes widened at the approach of Serana. He seemed at a loss for words, stammering and blathering, trying to right himself and gather his vocabulary. "L-Lady Serana?"

"It's nice to see you again, Vingalmo."

"It... It _is_ you? My word, my lady! How... How did you—? No, when did—?" Vingalmo took a deep breath to right himself. "I can hardly believe my eyes. You've returned. By the stars, you've returned!" The Altmer turned on his heel and strode away from them, straight towards a balcony overlooking three tables, one facing the balcony and the other two facing each other, in what appeared to be the great hall. "My lord! Everyone! Lady Serana has returned!"

The dialogue in the great hall died instantly. The loud creak of the doors behind them echoed throughout the very stones of the castle as the Vampires feasting below turned to gaze upward at the balcony. Serana seemed to pale, but Taryn couldn't tell for sure beyond her current complexion. Milos, meanwhile, narrowed his eyes at the scene below. The Vampires were pouring from casks goblets of blood; human and mer flesh alike shared plates at their seats; scarcely-robed, terrified-looking Nords were laid out on the tables, some Vampires holding their bleeding wrists in their mouths like dogs with a bone. Each shared the same red-orange eyes as Serana, though some appeared far more fiendish, much closer to the animal they were associated with.

At the head of their grand and grisly table was a Nord man draped in dark robes and a crimson cape. Of all the Vampires, he appeared the most regal, even out-showing the Altmer that had announced Serana in a grand fashion. He stood up and spread his arms outward when Serana appeared on the balcony beside Vingalmo, leaving Taryn and Milos completely ignored by the court of Vampires.

"My prodigal daughter returns, safe and sound," he announced to the Vampires with a deep, resounding voice, one that had practiced to be heard in rooms such as the one they dined in. "And look! Our patience has rewarded us with the Elder Scroll."

A Nord woman, a Vampire seated at the table, hissed lowly, "She has it?! The Elder Scroll?"

Taryn saw Serana purse her lips. "Incredible. I've been gone for whole eras and your greeting is less about my well-being, more about how excited you are to see this accursed thing."

"I did not realize you required my concern over your preserved state to be declared for all to hear, my daughter." He watched her descend the steps towards him. Taryn watched, wary of the numerous Vampires within. One was watching her with a wicked grin splayed across her hideous features. She had a great deal of fresh blood dribbling down her chin. "Perhaps if that traitorous mother of yours were here, we could celebrate together. Yes, we could laud your return with her head on a bloody pike."

"I see little has changed since I last saw you, father."

"We are Vampires, my darling. We don't change."

Vingalmo turned to look over his shoulder at the two mortals still standing in the entrance hall. His red-orange eyes narrowed. "Did Lady Serana also bring thralls?"

"Uh, no..." Taryn glanced up at Milos, who had his arms crossed and was glaring daggers at the Vampires below. "We just accompanied her here. Helped her get home."

"Mortals willingly stepping within a castle full of Vampires..." Vingalmo shook his head. "In the hundred years I've been here, this is the most I've ever seen."

"Us two?"

"No, there have been two more. Though one was a Vampire of diluted blood."

"Well..." Taryn peered downward and saw Serana and her father still deep in conversation, though Serana didn't appear to enjoy it. All the stares she was getting... no wonder she'd wanted some company that didn't focus on her like a piece of meat. She wasn't sure she wanted to leave Serana in this place, but if it was her choice... "We ought to get going now. We just wanted to see her safely home."

"Not quite yet, pets." Vingalmo beckoned them forward. "My lord would gladly see you rewarded for your efforts."

The air in the great hall had become tense. Serana looked discomforted, to say the least, and her father seemed to find it amusing. Milos didn't budge an inch, his eyes riveted on the groaning thralls below being fed upon by the Vampires.

"Send Serana's companions down. I would speak with them."

Taryn felt her stomach twist. She didn't much like the idea of going down there, but she felt as though refusal wasn't an option. Honestly, she just wanted to see Serana home safe. Didn't mind the boat ride over to see her there.

Vingalmo took their arms in an iron grasp and led them down the steps into the dimly-lit hall. Milos' face twisted with disgust, but he allowed the Vampire to lead him once Taryn shot him a look she hoped told him not to antagonize them. Firstly, they were outnumbered. Secondly, Serana had asked them not to. They would get out in one piece. They _would_ get out.

Now standing across from Serana's father, Taryn saw a faint resemblance between them. But he stood taller than her, his dark hair was slicked back, and his goatee was immaculately preserved. He smiled at the two, now released by Vingalmo.

"I am Harkon, lord of this court. My beloved daughter tells me you helped get her home safely. And you," he said, indicating Taryn, "freed her from the pit she was buried in. Your names, please."

Taryn put a hand on Milos' bracer. _Relax_ , she communicated. "Taryn. This is Milos."

"My welcome to you both, Taryn and Milos. Undoubtedly my daughter has told you what we are."

"A cult of cannibals," Milos growled. Taryn squeezed his bracer. _Really? You absolutely_ have _to antagonize them?_

Harkon appeared amused at that and took in his surroundings of human flesh and thralls forced to serve those who fed from them. "You're forgiven for arriving at that conclusion, misinformed as you are, but you are wrong. We are Vampires, some of the oldest and most powerful in Skyrim. And we've been here for hundreds upon hundreds of years, guarding my bloodline and keeping safe from the mortals who would do us harm. I have a question, if you'd indulge me. I sent some of my most trusted servants to where I believed my daughter to be hidden. Molva and Lokil. Did you happen to run into them?"

"In a manner of speaking..." Taryn shot a look at Milos. _He'd better let me do the talking._ "They won't be joining you again, unfortunately."

"I knew those louts were too full of themselves," the Nord Vampire who'd previously smiled menacingly at Taryn snarled, swishing around a goblet of blood. She curled her lip at the thought of them. "To be dealt with so easily by a mortal with blood as repugnant as hers..."

"Yes, I smelled it too, Fura," Harkon agreed, and indicated Taryn. "Werewolf blood."

Taryn felt her walls come up. She wasn't wounded. How could they tell? Another Nord Vampire made her way towards the two, taking a deep, exhaustive breath. "I smell Companion on her. I'd recognize that scent anywhere. But no silver eyes."

Milos began reaching for his greatsword. Taryn stopped him, eyeing the Vampire who'd smelled her warily.

"So, a lycanthrope of Hircine rescues a Vampire of Molag Bal. How quaint." Harkon laughed humourlessly. "We should change that. For delivering my daughter and the elusive Elder Scroll to me, I offer a reward beyond all measure, with no equal—my blood, to purge you of that filth you carry. You will be pure, whole again, and the world will tremble as you pass."

The offer gave Taryn pause. Milos noticed. "And if we refuse?" Milos asked.

"Then you will be banished from the castle. You will leave and never return, else you'd like to join those at our table here," he answered, gesturing to the thralls.

"Then we—."

"It cures lycanthropy?" Taryn interjected.

Milos stopped on a septim.

"Yes, dear child. You wouldn't have to fear Hircine's Hunting Grounds ever again. You'd do as you wish, on your own terms." Milos was trying to get Taryn to look at him, but she kept her eyes rooted to the ground as she mulled over his proposition. "Perhaps you'd like a demonstration?"

Harkon trembled with power. His skin became clouded with darkness, face contorting and his body gaining mass at a rapid pace. Wings burst from his back and spread around him, stretching as they tasted the air of freedom. In no time at all, a monstrous, terrifying visage of a Vampire Lord floated before them. Harkon looked more like a bat than a man.

"This is the grand power I offer you. Choose now."

Taryn sighed, felt her shoulders sagging. "I..." Her hesitation showed. Gods, she wished it didn't. She wished she wasn't considering Harkon's words, lingering on the possibilities that such freedoms would allow her. Taryn's schedule idled in her mind, her brief twenty-four days from when Masser began waning to becoming full again. Her fears of attacking Milos again... She peeked at the scar on her hand, just one he'd inflicted. Because she wasn't strong enough to stay herself when it happened.

But she recalled Heimdall's pursuit to help her, Javin's aid to keep others safe, and Cha'qim's nonchalant approach to the whole thing. If it wasn't for them she might have seen herself in a much darker light. Taryn might have fallen into despair and never been able to claw herself out. Even Milos was putting his best foot forward for the whole thing.

She steeled herself. "I think I'd like to play with the cards I've been dealt. I don't want what you're offering."

The Vampire Lord frowned, then focused his gaze on the Argonian beside her. "I assume you are of the same opinion."

"You'd be correct," responded Milos.

"Then I shall banish you. Though not without—."

_/-\\_

 _ **21 First Seed, 4E 202**_

A portal opened at the banks of the Sea of Ghosts and deposited the Dovahkiin and Milos into the sand rather ungracefully. Eduard was unsurprised. Undoubtedly one or both of them had annoyed the denizens of the castle and were booted from the residence without a second thought, although he'd expected some form of banishment much earlier. He was almost impressed it had taken longer than he'd predicted.

"Alduin's breath. And here I thought you might be trying to avoid me." Eduard smirked beneath his mask as they slowly pushed themselves onto their feet. "Well, a promise is a promise. And since we are now heading in that direction, we ought to make a stop—."

Something wasn't right. Eduard halted and watched the two. They couldn't seem to get their pale eyes to focus, but they began walking ahead, right past Eduard and around the fort. No, something certainly was not right.

"Dovahkiin." His words didn't seem to reach her. She and the Argonian stared straight ahead, their gaze unwavering. Eduard thought to reach for her but kept his arms firmly at his sides. Instead, he reached out with his magicka. Ah, yes. Something was certainly amiss.

He decided to watch for now. Their pale eyes betrayed only the focus of their direction. When one tripped, the other did not stop to help. When one slowed, the other did not adjust their pace. It was uncharacteristic of the two. But still, Eduard watched. He only knew there was some sort of spell placed upon them, but he could merely see the effects, not how to dispel it.

They had paced themselves walking through the mountains earlier, but now they continued without hindrance or pause. No conversation, just heavy silence. And throughout it all Eduard picked at his brain, calling upon his decades of training and study. This was an entirely different world to the one he was used to, full of strange magics and odd culture. Some things remained as they had been, yet others were drastically different. And Eduard did not recognize how to stall or find a hole in the strange enchantment upon the Dovahkiin and the Argonian.

So what to do? They were clearly compelled to head somewhere. Something had gone on in that castle to make them so... mechanical. Eduard felt relief he hadn't followed inside, even if the knowledge he'd gained from the barrier Serana had dropped was minor, at best.

Still...

Eduard reached for the Dovahkiin, placed his hand on her forearm. She stopped for the first time since she'd been spat out of that portal and onto the beach. No resistance, no tug or pull in another direction. A full stop.

Now what? She'd stopped, but he hadn't thought ahead. A child's mistake. He scrambled for words as her pale eyes settled on him. Come to think of it, those pale eyes were much like the oarman's at the shambling docks. Instruction. Yes, he needed to give instruction. But what kind?

It seemed as though the Dovahkiin was struggling to speak. Then he had his answer.

"Greystone, speak."

It looked as though she was in physical pain to do so, but she obeyed nonetheless. "R-Red... water... Den..."

Milos passed them by as they stood on the mountain. So long as Eduard held the Dovahkiin, she would not move. With a concerned rumble, Eduard pulled the Dovahkiin gently over to the shambling Argonian and carefully grabbed him as well. He halted his advance immediately.

"Tell me where that is," Eduard told her.

"Don't... know..." The Dovahkiin struggled with her speech. "Wander... S-Skyrim. Find—."

"Do you know where it is?" asked the Argonian.

Eduard's brow knitted. How strange. Milos could form coherent sentences while the Dovahkiin could not. Was it the difference in their race or perhaps their intelligence? He didn't know. There was so much about this he didn't know, and it was beginning to frustrate him! As much as it annoyed him, he knew he needed aid. And Eduard knew exactly where to find it.

"I do not," admitted the priest, "but I do know someone who does."

"Take us," demanded the Argonian.

Eduard nodded curtly. Yes, he would lead them. He'd been along the path so many times he knew it quite by heart. He could take them. "Follow me," he commanded them.

When he released them, they did as they were told and followed Eduard closely. Their ascent and descent in the Haafingar Mountains, their ambling onto the road, their pause so Eduard could check the map and ensure he was going the right direction. He had the forethought before they began on their journey in earnest to leave a message with a courier for the Breton boy in Solitude about their next location should he wish to catch them up. And then he had to send a letter ahead to their destination, warning of the state of the Argonian and the Dovahkiin. Then they began their journey. Eduard just hoped he was up to the challenge.

_/-\\_

 _ **25 First Seed, 4E 202**_

Javin awaited the trio in the main courtyard directly ahead of the open maw of the focus point at its centre. As he'd predicted, not long after he'd begun standing there did they make their appearance. Eduard, even with his mask in place, looked exhausted. His shoulders slumped with the weight of a pack and the weight of their well-being. It filled Javin with no small comfort the Dragon Priest had elicited to seek help for them rather than abandon them. But the Arch-Mage decided to leave the probing questions for later.

Even across the courtyard, Javin could see the alterations Eduard had briefly mentioned in his letter. Pale eyes, staggering walk, this sense of... well, if Javin could put in into words, he'd call it misdirection.

He wasted no time on greetings. For now, he needed to lead them to a safe space. His quarters were already made up to accommodate. "If you'd follow me," he said, and led them through to the Hall of the Elements.

When they were all inside, Eduard led the jaunt up to the Arch-Mage's room and was gratified to see Javin had kept it unlocked. They piled inside the room alight with magicka and torches. The Arch-Mage's table, a former focal point of the room, had been pushed against the wall and the rest of the floor cleared of any impeding obstacles.

"So you know what has befallen them," said Eduard clearly.

Javin nodded. "Yes. Once, as a young man, I had seen something similar, though not quite to this degree. This is powerful magic based in the daedric arts."

Eduard gestured for Milos and Taryn to gather by the tree. Javin watched him closely with the barest beginnings of a smirk, although he managed to hide it by the time the priest's eyes fell upon him. Then Javin indicated for Eduard to take a seat nearby.

"I've asked another mage to help in freeing them. I would ask you as well, but you've been on the road for the better part of half a week. Rest and water yourself."

The Dragon Priest inclined his head slightly in thanks and made his way towards the jug of water placed upon the table shoved against the wall. He tossed their bags against the wall and slumped into the chair, appeased for the moment.

Not long afterward, Master Tolfdir himself appeared in the room. "Arch-Mage," the elderly Nord greeted cordially. "You needed my help?"

"Yes, my friend. The long and short of it is these two are under the influence of strong daedric magic and must be freed."

"Ah, young Taryn and Milos. What happened?"

"I will explain the rest later. For now..." Javin paused, then placed a friendly hand on his second's shoulder. "Please keep your mind open. Whatever we see, I ask you to help. It's more important than you realize."

The elder Nord sighed. Javin smiled at him knowingly. "You certainly do know how to keep these old bones on edge, Arch-Mage."

Javin demonstrated where and how he wanted Tolfdir standing. After some quick instruction and ratification Tolfdir knew how to perform their strange ritual, Javin asked Eduard to have Taryn and Milos kneel on the ground with their backs to his tree. Eduard complied slowly.

The Dragon Priest took their arms and guided them to the spot Javin had indicated. "Kneel," he commanded them.

Taryn went down without hesitation. Milos struggled against the command.

"Where is Redwater Den?" the Argonian asked.

Eduard narrowed his eyes at the towering beast-kin. " _Kneel_ ," he said again.

"Take us to Redwater Den!" hissed Milos, but his knees buckled. "Take us there! _Take us there now_!"

"Eduard, back away."

He hastened backwards as the mages began. The two were slow to start, performing their movements in perfect synchronization, fluid despite their old age. The atmosphere began to spark with strength. Eduard took another step back. He'd seen the Arch-Mage in battle before, but he'd used spells that wouldn't drain his energy, basic spells a novice could learn without much issue. The air itself now trembled before his power.

Javin slid his limbs around, robes flowing around him like water about a stone. Eduard felt the manipulation of the very fabric of magicka through him. Tolfdir followed every last motion Javin performed with nearly the same strength and mastery the Arch-Mage had. The Argonian was struggling to stand and flee, to reach the place they'd been instructed to go, but a sudden, decisive strike to the empty air from Javin kept him rooted to the ground. The two old men continued unhindered.

The air shimmered, then it exploded with colours around Taryn and Milos. The Argonian gasped then collapsed suddenly, heaving and choking, but his eyes had returned to normal. Whatever strange ritual had been performed, he was now free of whatever influence he was under. Taryn, however, was not. It was clear as the two elder mages focused their attention wholly on her that there was a great deal of resistance in place. Javin manipulated the magicka around them to try to find the root cause beyond the surface of the psyche, like they had done to free Milos. But walls had been erected. Powerful, of the daedric variety. There was no getting past them without serious harm.

"Can we remove the thralling?" Tolfdir asked over the gales of magicka swirling around them.

Javin hesitated. "We can, but it does not remove the problem."

"One issue at a time, old friend."

Nodding resolutely, Javin pressed forth and placed his thumb above the ridge of Taryn's nose between her eyes, forcing the more powerful thralling spell to evaporate. The Imperial spasmed and collapsed much like her friend, gasping for breath and trying to calm the sudden spike in her heartbeats.

The two old mages slowly dispersed the magicka they'd gathered and let it settle amongst the room again. With calming breaths they felt their reserves and found them nearly drained. Tolfdir buckled but managed to stay on his feet as he forced himself to breathe.

"Eduard, get him a drink," the Arch-Mage instructed.

The Dragon Priest had barely crossed the room before the Imperial leapt up and encircled her hands around the Arch-Mages throat with a ferocious, animalistic snarl, knocking him onto his back and pinning him with all the strength she could muster.


End file.
